


The Angel Murders

by chimera67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, Detective Dean, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Singer Cas, Snarky Claire, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 94,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimera67/pseuds/chimera67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean first gets the call from Ellen telling him that Jo has gone missing he isn't too worried--it won't be the first time Jo has refused to answer her mother's calls.  When he finds out that she went missing while working a case for his brother, Sam, however, he drops everything to drive out to Oakland and look for her.  Once there he quickly realizes that the case she had been working on holds the key to finding her, and that one of the last people she talked to--a street musician named Cas--knows more than he is letting on.  If only the man wasn't so determined to be so damn unhelpful.  And if only his eyes weren't that particularly sexy shade of blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Show Me the Place

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to update this every Wednesday and Sunday. The chapter titles are all Leonard Cohen songs.

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**"Show Me the Place"**

 

     Dean listened to the sound of the engine as he drove through the night. He had turned off the radio an hour earlier, after the late night AM station he was picking up from New Orleans had grown too static-y to tolerate. It was too bad, really, because whoever had been spinning the records had pretty awesome taste. It had been straight up classic rock, but not just the top 40 stuff. In fact, the majority of it had all been what sounded like bootleg recordings, both studio and live concerts, complete with banter and the occasional time when someone in the band had screwed up enough for the whole song to stop and start over again.

 

     Dean loved hearing that reminder that the polished song you usually heard on the radio was just that—polished—and that the truth was it took a whole lot of behind the scenes work to produce a finished song. It reminded him of his job, and how people seemed to think that doing what he did was something that could be accomplished in sixty minutes (forty-two, if you factored in the commercials), just like they did it on CSI. They didn't picture all the dead end leads he had to chase down, all the time spent in county courthouses and records offices tediously combing through file after file (and seriously, he knew he was a technophobe, but you'd think that more of these places would have gone online by now), or worse yet, all the incredibly dull hours spent sitting in his car with a pair of binoculars pressed to his face, waiting for someone to do something as thrilling as come out of their house in the morning and pick up the newspaper.

 

     No, they just thought about the moment when he called them up to tell them that he had found what they were looking for—that what they had begun to think was lost forever wasn't really gone. Or, worse yet, the moment when he called them up to tell them it really _was_ gone, at least in this life.

 

     Of course, the fact was he was fine—more than fine—if people wanted to think about his job any dumb ass way they wanted, because if they ever realized the truth—that 99% of his job was just sheer, bloody-minded perseverance, then maybe they wouldn't be so quick to pay him to do it. And if he didn't get paid to do this job he'd have to find a “real” one, and that was a thought he just couldn't stand. Not that he was so adverse to the “apple pie life”—Christ, he had crawled underneath enough sketchy motel room bedspreads, tacky with the come of a thousand forgotten Johns, not to feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets and quilts passed down from generation to generation—he was just adverse to the sacrifices it took to get you there. Sacrifices like giving up the right to control your own destiny.

 

     Not that he felt terribly in control of his destiny at the moment, which would explain why he was hurtling through the darkness somewhere in the middle of Texas, out of range of anything but Jesus freak shows and talk radio. Of the two, he didn't know which was worse—he suspected that at least the talk radio hosts _knew_ they were full of shit. He picked up his phone from where he had tossed it on the seat beside him earlier, next to the bag of beignets he had bought at the last convenience store before he left Louisiana. He had been looking forward to his sugar high lasting at least as far as San Antonio, but then he had gotten the call from Ellen and he hadn't felt like spending the next five hundred miles sucking powdered sugar from the tips of his fingers. Not while Jo was missing.

 

     Missing. It was ironic, really, that someone who made their living finding things could ever go missing, but there it was. When Ellen had first called Dean to tell him he had refused to believe her, instead guessing that Ellen and Jo had gotten into another one of their long distance screaming matches and Jo was too busy sulking to take her mother's calls. In the time Dean had lived with the two of them, after his Dad died and before he had set off on his own, he had seen them have some epic fights. To someone who expressed his anger by grinding his molars down another millimeter and letting his own stomach chew holes in itself, it was kind of awesome to see people give full vent to the fury that possessed them, like two hurricanes meeting across the isthmus of some unfortunate continent. Almost as awesome as seeing them calm down again after the storm, settling back into love and affection as if nothing had ever happened, as if there was no force on heaven or earth that could break their connection, not permanently.

 

     He had tried to hint at that delicately, but Ellen had cut him off.

 

     “No, we aren't fighting Dean. Not this time.”

 

     He had sighed, trying to decide how best to put it before just jumping right in and saying it. After all, Ellen was over a thousand miles away—it wasn't like she could reach through the phone and slap him upside the head. “By 'not fighting' do you mean 'not fighting by normal peoples' standards' or 'not fighting for you and Jo'? Because I've seen you guys make Thanksgiving dinner together under conditions that would have most normal families calling in the SWAT team.”

 

     “What are you talking about, Dean? We're normal.”

 

     Dean rubbed the back of his head automatically: he could swear Ellen's voice had just slapped him. “Ellen...” he had begun, appeasingly.

 

     “No Dean, I know what you mean, but this is different. There was nothing, nothing at all. One day we're talking about this ridiculous new coffee maker she spent over two hundred dollars on, and the next day there's no answer. And the next, and the next.”

 

    Dean ran his hand over the top of his head, pushing his short brown hair into standing up a little straighter. “She could be busy working a case. Did you try texting her?”

 

    “Dean.” The seriousness of Ellen's voice made him pick the phone up from the cradle of the the hands-free device and put it up to his ear, road safety be damned. He had a feeling that whatever Ellen was going to say next he didn't want to hear echoing around the inside of his car.

 

     “Yeah?” he said, his voice low and husky.

 

     “She is working a case. Sam said they haven't heard from her in three days. Their protocol is to check in every forty-eight hours.”

 

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT_.

 

     Dean had pulled off to the side of the road then, not trusting himself anymore to talk and drive. He had gotten out of the car, leaving the engine running and the headlights on, and paced back and forth in front of them while he fired off a series of rapid questions at Ellen.

 

     What case? Something for Sam. How long had she been working on it? A few weeks. Was it dangerous? Here Ellen had hesitated before answering him. Yes.

 

     “That son of a _bitch!_ ” Dean stopped pacing, instead looking around for something to hit. Unfortunately, the only thing within reach was his baby. He briefly consider kicking out the headlights of his 1967 Chevy Impala, but the cold rational part of him pointed out that he couldn't very well drive through assfuck nowhere in the middle of the night without headlights, and so he forced himself to calm down, stop his pacing and lean against the hood instead, letting the feel of the engine beneath him soothe him like a hand stroking his shoulder. He scrambled his hand through his hair again.

 

     “Okay, Ellen. Okay.”

 

     He didn't have to say anything more than that. He knew that Ellen knew he meant, “Okay, I'll fix this. Okay, I'll take care of it. Okay, I got you.”

 

     There was a sigh from the other end of the line, as if Ellen had just had a rock lifted off her chest. “Thank you Dean.” Her voice cracked at the end, and Dean fought the urge to punch something yet again. “Oh, and Sam wanted me to make sure you had his new number. He wasn't sure if you knew how to get a hold of him anymore.”

 

     Dean fought down the irrational urge to bark out a laugh at that. His specialty was finding missing persons: did Sam honestly believe that the reason Dean had not called him for the past two years was because he couldn't find his fucking _number_? Again, Dean tamped down his anger and instead reached into his inner pocket for a notebook and pen. No need to waste time looking something up if the information was right there in front of him. To do otherwise would be unprofessional. “Yeah, okay, give it to me,” he said. He could sense Ellen's disapproval at his not having Sam's current number, but he ignored it, instead writing down a seemingly endless series of numbers.

 

     “How many fucking phones does he have?” he finally snapped. He stopped Ellen before she could respond with a reprimand. “Forget it. Thanks. And Ellen?” There was no answer, but Dean knew that she was listening. “I'll find Jo. I promise.”

 

     There was another moment of silence, and then a ragged breath, sounding like it was drawn into lungs that had just about closed in on themselves. “I know you will, honey,” she finally said. “I know you will.”

 

 

                                                                                                                      * * *

 

 

 

     It was noon the next day before Dean finally made it out of Texas, passing over the border into New Mexico like the proverbial bat out of hell. He had thought about calling Sam as soon as the sun had come up—hell, he had thought about calling him in the middle of the night, just so he could have the advantage of yelling at him while Dean was fully awake and Sam was still dazed enough by sleep to be defenseless—but decided to wait until he was out of Texas to do it.

 

     He lay on his back on a concrete table at a roadside rest stop that looked like it had seen better days. Above his head, on the corrugated metal of the shelter, someone had written “Jesus Saves.” Next to it someone else had written “Ricky Sucks.” As far as competing advertisements went, Dean thought Ricky had Jesus beat by a mile. _Christ,_ he muttered to himself before sitting up with a lurch and flipping open his phone. His fingers punched in the first number Ellen had given him, and then waited while it rang. Idly he wondered how many numbers he would have to go through before he got a hold of Sam. He was already thinking about the gruff message he was going to leave when the line was answered with a tense, “Dean?”

 

     Dean sat up straighter and fought the urge to put his free hand over his heart. Sam sounded just the same. The same combination of goofy and hopeful and frustrated and well, just _Sam_ as he ever had. So different from the last time Dean had spoken to him. So different from the cold automaton who had told Dean that he, for one, was through being dragged back into the Hell of their past, that if Dean and their father had wanted to cling to the memories of a happy past that he was by no means sure had ever really existed then that was their right, but from now on Dean could count him out. The Sam who hadn't even returned Dean's phone calls when Dean had invited him to their father's funeral not two months later.

 

     Dean felt the memory of standing alone at their father's grave wash away any tenderness he felt at the sound of Sam's voice, and when he heard Sam take a deep breath and say, “Dean, I'm so sor—” he cut him off before he could finish.

 

     “Any news of Jo?” he asked abruptly.

 

     There was a small gasp on the other end of the line, then a pause, followed by a softly spoken, “No.”

 

     “How long has it been now since you last heard from her?” Dean pulled open his notepad, changing his phone to speaker mode and setting it on the table in front of him. The voice that came out of it seemed lost and ghost-like next to the roar and rattle of trucks passing him on the two-lane highway he had pulled off from.

 

     “Almost three days.”

 

_Fucking hell_. “Cops have anything?”

 

     “Ah...”

 

     Dean shot the phone a glare. “Sammy?” The old endearment was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

     “It's complicated.”

 

     Dean felt like he had just caught a fourteen-year-old Sam trying to sneak out of the house. Only this time, instead of telling Dean that he was meeting his high school forensics club for an all-night study session at Denny's (true story), he was telling him that he hadn't wanted to call the cops because of a “few outstanding warrants Jo had picked up for breaking and entering.”

 

     “Jesus, Sammy, what's the point of working for the man if he isn't going to have your back?” he said, wiping his hand over his face.

 

     Sam said something about “not following proper procedure” and “he had been in the process of getting all of the charges dropped,” and “like I said, it's complicated,” but Dean wasn't listening anymore. In front of him a brand new RV towing a forty thousand dollar Jeep pulled off into the rest stop. A door opened on the side and a man jumped out, pulled open his pants and began to take a piss against the side of another table up the way. Dean shook his head: a quarter of a million bucks of vehicle and the guy couldn't be bothered to piss in his own toilet. If Dean asked him what was up with that he was sure that he would get some version of “It's complicated,” back in return. Yeah, explaining why it was okay for you to do the wrong thing was always complicated.

 

     That's not what he said to Sam, though. What he said was, “Then use small words, and I'll try and keep up.” The sigh that came over the line was almost indistinguishable from the wind of a semi passing in the opposite direction. The force of the air carried the piss smell over to Dean, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, opening his mouth to say something even shittier when Sam spoke again.

 

     “Jo is one of my best investigators. But she doesn't always follow the rules. Gee, I wonder who she learned _that_ from?”

 

     Dean refused to take the bait. “Yeah, and you knew that about her when you hired her.”

 

     There was a moment of silence, then Sam said, “I take care of Jo.”

 

     “Apparently not.”

 

     More silence, then another sigh. “Look, can we just, not—”

 

     “Can we not _what_ Sammy? Can we just _not_ put someone who is the closest thing we have to a sister in danger? Can we just _not_ put a woman who took us in, gave us a home, treated us like her own kids through the hell of having her daughter missing? Can we finally, for once in our god-damned lives, put our _family_ before ourselves?”

 

     The pissing man was now smoking a cigarette ( _Damn, that must have been a hell of a piss_ , Dean thought), and at the sound of Dean's raised voice he looked up and over at Dean. Dean tried to communicate _I will fucking end you_ through his body language; it must have worked, because the guy quickly threw down his cigarette and climbed back into his douchemobile. Sam's voice, when it finally came back, sounded broken, as if every word from Dean's mouth had been a physical blow. “Dean,” he said, his voice cracking at the end. “Please. I need your help.”

 

     Dean closed his eyes and saw a five year old Sammy crawling into bed with him, clutching the floppy grey stuffed elephant he had carried with him everywhere, quietly asking Dean if he could sleep there tonight. And then he pictured himself, grumbling fondly as he pulled Sam into his ten year old arms, feeling the younger boy sigh and fall asleep instantly. He cleared his throat, which had grown uncomfortably tight, and then picked up the phone and switched it off of speaker and held it up to his face. “Yeah, Sammy,” he said quietly. “I know. I'm coming.”

 

 

 

                                                                                                                       * * *

 

 

 

     They agreed to go over the details when Dean got to town. There was really nothing he could do while driving, anyway. They made plans to meet at a restaurant near Jack London Square two days from then, with Sam promising to call Dean immediately if he heard anything new. Dean didn't expect to hear from him, and he didn't. Once Sam had told him that Jo had been missing for over seventy-two hours Dean had already started switching the focus in his mind away from finding a missing person, and toward finding a corpse. Because he was almost certain now that that was what he was looking for.

 

     A corpse.

 

     It was at times like these that Dean hated being so good at his job. Hated that the same skills and instincts that let him track a custodial interference case across multiple countries also let him know when he was instead following the trail of a murder/suicide. Let him know when it was a case of philandering husband moving on to live with his new family, and when it was a case of failed businessman removing himself from the scene permanently.

 

     Dean knew that in cases of stranger abduction of an adult the chances of a victim still being alive even twenty-four hours after their abduction were almost nil. The chances after seventy-two—or rather 120, by the time Dean arrived—were infinitesimally smaller. Despite the public's preoccupation with the idea of girls being held in basements for years, it very rarely happened that way. And especially didn't happen when it wasn't a case of some pervert grabbing a girl off of the street, but rather a calculated hit designed to take a player off of the board.

 

     And that was exactly what Jo was. A player, just like Dean, and even if Dean hadn't wanted to find her (or at least what remained of her) because of all the things she meant to him, he would still be doing this as one professional for another. Because, despite Dean's anger at Sam for hiring her, he knew in his heart that that was what Jo was. A professional. Just like him.

 

     He thought again about the day he asked her to be his partner, and the day she refused him. “Come on, Jo, you know we make a great team. Just think of how much more we could do together. Just having someone to share the driving with alone would be _huge_.”

 

     Jo had looked at him sideways and smirked. “You'd let me drive your baby?”

 

     “Well, yeah. Sometimes. Occasionally. If it was necessary, I mean...”

 

     She had laughed then, throwing her head back. She always reminded him of Ellen when she did that. “Okay, okay, don't hurt yourself.”

 

     “Okay as in, you'll do it? Winchester & Harvelle, Private Investigators. It has a nice ring, don't you think?”

 

     “Hmm. I like Harvelle & Winchester myself.”

 

     “What? That sounds like a personal injury firm.”

 

     She laughed again. “No it doesn't.” Suddenly she had gotten a serious look in her eyes. “Dean, if I do this—if we do this—then I think that there is something you need to know.”

 

     Dean had picked up on the serious tone, and settled down immediately. “Yeah, okay Jo, anything. You can tell me anything. What is it?”

 

     He had expected her to say that she wanted it to be a full partnership. That she wanted equal rights into deciding which clients they did and did not take. (She had told Dean on more than one occasion that he would have to eat less ramen if he didn't refuse to be hired by so many “douchebags.”) He had expected her to maybe say she thought they should get a more fuel efficient car if they were going to be spending so much time driving back and forth across the country. (Sometimes he would like to personally kick Al Gore in the balls. Before him, _everyone_ had thought his baby was awesome—no exception.). He had even expected her to say she wanted to get a website or some such nonsense. What he hadn't expected her to do was walk up, grab his shirt, and kiss him.

 

     And he most certainly hadn't been expecting the look of quiet despair on her face when he gently pushed her away.

 

     It wasn't like he hadn't known she had a crush on him—they'd practically grown up together, and he had seen her go through her awkward skinny adolescent phase right up through what he liked to tease her was her “awkward skinny adult phase.” He had thought that as she had gotten older the lack of long, pining looks had meant that she had gotten it out of her system. He hadn't realized until that moment that it meant that she had just gotten better at hiding it.

 

     She had looked up at him and smiled wryly. “It's never going to happen, is it?” she had asked.

     He had shaken his head, at a loss for how to do this. “Jo, you're like my _sister_ . It would be like being with _Sam_.” She had snorted at that, and then gotten a thoughtful look on her face.

 

     “Sam, huh?”

 

     The next day she had been on the phone all day, and by that time a week later she had been standing next to her car, ready to make the drive to San Francisco. Dean had watched from a few feet away as Ellen had hugged her tearfully goodbye before shooting Dean an unfathomable look and heading back inside to sniffle at the kitchen table. Dean had just looked at his shoes after that until she had gotten up into his space and forced him to look into her eyes. “Hey,” she said softly. “It'll be okay. _I'll_ be okay.”

 

     “I should be the one who has to leave.” His voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible.

 

     She snorted at that. “Like you'd last a minute in a big city. The traffic alone would drive you insane.”

 

     “I could go somewhere else. Anywhere.” He looked down again.

 

     “Dean.” He didn't look up. “Dean,” she said again, this time more insistently, until he did. “This will be good for me. A new town, a new start. New possibilities. I'm lucky that Sam was able to offer me a job. It'll be fine.”

 

     “It doesn't sound safe,” he muttered stubbornly.

 

     Jo had just laughed. “Are you kidding me? Investigator for, like, the lowest DA in the entire San Francisco Bay area? I'll probably be taking pictures of intersections for jaywalking trials.” Dean had laughed at that along with her, and then they had managed to hug once before she had said, her voice thick with unshed tears, “Come see me sometime, okay?”

 

     He had nodded against the top of her head, and then she had been gone.

 

     Of course he had never gone to see her, not once. He didn't even try and tell himself it was because he was too busy. Hell, one case had taken him to Santa Barbara, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to driven up the coast to take her out to dinner. But if he had been in town and hadn't made an effort to see Sam then it would have been official—his and Sam's relationship would have been officially severed—and he wasn't prepared to go there. Not yet.

 

     He wished now that he had gone to see her, at least once, just to get an idea of what her life in San Francisco had been like. He knew he was going to have to waste valuable time putting all that together now—finding out where she went for her morning coffee, where she bought her groceries, who she hung out with on her down time. If he already knew this stuff he would be able to hit the ground running. Now he was going to have to work this just like any other missing persons case.

 

     Unless maybe Sam knew these things. He was thinking of which questions to ask him first as he maneuvered his baby into a tight spot near the Square. Despite what Jo had said, big cities (and their traffic) didn't scare him. When he drove his car it was like she was an extension of himself, and moving her through traffic (or shoehorning her into a tight spot between two douchebags who looked like they had barely passed the parallel parking part of the driver's test) was as easy as pushing himself through a crowd.

 

     Which is what he was doing as soon as he had parked. “Damn,” he said, looking at the throngs of tourists in front of him. He looked around and spotted the restaurant he was meeting Sam at before checking his watch: he still had half an hour before they were supposed to meet. He looked around for anything that even vaguely resembled a bar and saw, sitting incongruously in the middle of the square, a place that looked like it would be more at home on the outskirts of a Prairie town then in the middle of a large metropolis. As he got closer he saw that it was an actual, honest to God tavern, and he felt his spirits pick up at the thought of being able to toss back a scotch (or two) before his meeting with Sam. Then as he got closer he saw two things that reminded him of exactly where he was. One, the bar wasn't open yet (no self-respecting Midwestern bar would ever be closed in the morning—too much business lost), and two, there was a blonde guy with dreads beating a guitar to death right in front of it.

 

     As Dean got closer he amended his first thought from “beating to death” to “playing,” but only grudgingly. The guy had his left hand in a choke hold on the guitar's neck, not so much playing a chord as squishing one, while his right hand was slamming down against the strings over and over in a choppy rhythm. Meanwhile, he was lustily wailing “Jah love” at the top of his lungs. A girl dressed in what had to be the ugliest, most shapeless dress ever made spun and writhed in front of him, not so much dancing as seizing, her arms lifted up to the sky and her eyes closed in rapture. As she waved her arms he caught a sharp whiff of body odor from the furry black depths of her armpits before he noticed that her shapeless bag of a dress gaped away at the sides, giving him a clear view of firm breasts just beneath it. He stopped and smiled, admiring the view for a minute. Sure, the “music” sucked, and she smelled like a garbage can, but hey, tits were tits.

 

     He was enjoying watching the way they had just the slightest bounce to them when he felt the hand slipping into his pocket.

 

     Fucking great. Moving quickly, he grabbed the wrist as it tried to depart with his wallet. He squeezed sharply, feeling bones grind together and spun to find another smelly girl staring up at him in alarm. “You're hurting me!” she said, aggrieved.

 

     “And you're stealing from me,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.

 

     The tourists around him backed away, clearly sensing a confrontation. The girl in front of him tried to brazen it out. “I was not. I saw your wallet fall out of your pocket. I was just trying to put it back.”

 

     He almost laughed. “Seriously? That's the one you're going with?” He glanced down and removed his wallet from where it was still clutched in the hand whose wrist he was currently squeezing into dust. He tightened his grip fractionally and she whimpered.

 

     “Let me go,” she said, her voice losing all of it's former bravado.

 

     “Or what?” Dean said. “You'll scream? Call the cops?”

 

     By this point everyone around them had moved off, and Dean realized that the annoying noise behind them had stopped as well. The girl looked over his shoulder, a pleading look in her eyes as the guitar player quickly grabbed the few coins and bills he had managed to get from the crowd and stuff them into his pockets before picking up his hat from the ground. He didn't even have a guitar case, Dean noted. With an apologetic look at the girl he walked briskly away. She whimpered.

 

     Of course. They were working together. Dean turned back to her and dropped his voice down even lower. “What's you name?”

 

     “Rebecca.”

 

     She spoke so quickly and so quietly that Dean knew it wasn't a lie. Unfortunately, he knew that her real name would be of no use to him. “What's your street name?”

 

     “Starshine,” she answered again, just as quickly.

 

     He let go of her wrist, trusting her palpable fear to keep her in place as he opened up his wallet.

     “It's all there,” she said, her voice a nervous whisper. “Please...”

 

     “Oh, I know it's all here,” Dean said, reaching in and pulling out a crisp hundred dollar bill. He held it in front of her. “Here's the deal, _Starshine._ I'm letting you go. But when I find you again—and I _will_ find you again—I'm going to have some questions, and you're going to help me find the answers, got it?” He held the bill out to her, and she took it, hesitantly. “Consider this an advance.”

 

     She nodded briefly, and then turned and dashed out of the square. Behind him Dean heard the sound of guitar strings being tuned, and realized that someone else had already taken the dreadlocked busker's place. Jesus, they were like rats around here. He glanced up to see what new flavor of hippie had taken the boy's place and was stunned into immobility by the sight of a head full of messy black hair bent over the most beautiful hands he had ever seen holding a battered acoustic guitar. One hand held a pick between long, sensitive fingers and was carefully hitting each string while the other was adjusting tuning pegs with every note. Following the hand that was doing the actual tuning Dean saw a thin wrist and then a muscular forearm with a large tattoo of an _f-hole_ inked into the skin all the way up to the elbow, where it was covered up by the sleeves of a rumpled button-down pushed carelessly up and out of the way. The only part of the man's face Dean could see (and clearly, Dean adjusted in his head, this was a _man_ , not a boy) was the end of a sharp nose and pink, slightly chapped lips, pursed now in concentration as he tried to tune the guitar over the sounds of the chattering tourists wandering past.

 

     Dean knew that he should stop staring and move along, if for no other reason than if he were still here when the man started playing it would be awkward to just turn and walk away, but he found himself curious as to what kind of eyes went with a look like that. He pictured them dark, black almost, perfectly completing the whole “wild gypsy” vibe the guy was giving off, especially now that he had finished tuning and was quickly playing a few flamenco style riffs on the guitar, obviously warming up. With one last flourish he was apparently done, because before Dean could react and turn away he glanced up, and _holy shit_ , those eyes.

 

     Not black, not dark, but blue, blue like a Kansas sky on a cloudless spring day, when the sky above you was so vast that it seemed like the only way to stay rooted to the earth was to lie down and clutch handfuls of grass in both fists. Suddenly Dean had a flashback of doing just that with his mother, hearing her laugh and say, “Hold on, Dean, the Earth is spinning at a thousand miles per hour, _hold on_ ,” and him looking over at her with a wild grin to match her own, seeing the large swell of her pregnant belly rise up above her as she lay on her back in the back yard of their home in Lawrence. He felt it in his gut, then, the hard punch of the word _home_ that brought a frisson of delight followed by the bitter feeling of loss.

 

     In front of him blue eyes opened wider in surprise, and Dean wondered just how much of all of that had passed across his face. He schooled his features into blankness like a knight slamming his visor down on his helmet, and turned on his heel and walked away. So what if he was early to meet Sammy. The sooner he got started the better off he was anyway.

 

     Of course, him being early practically guaranteed that Sam was late. Dean had been sitting at a table for nearly half an hour by the time Sam had deigned to show up, and Dean was glad, because it meant that any residual instinct he might have had to jump up and hug him was smothered underneath the seething annoyance of having been kept waiting. Sam must have seen as much when he walked up—seen the twitch in Dean's clenched jaw, the rigid way he held his shoulders—because he didn't stay standing beside the table, waiting for the hug that never came, but rather slid into the booth across from Dean abruptly. That, Dean thought, or he just didn't give a shit.

 

     “Sorry,” was the first word out of his mouth, and for a brief, wild moment Dean thought he was apologizing for everything, every shitty thing he had and hadn't done in the last two years, and Dean felt temporarily overwhelmed with the urge to lean across the table and pull him into a crushing hug and say, “Me, too, Sammy, me too,” but then he followed it up with “the traffic was terrible” and instead Dean cocked one eyebrow up into his hairline and said, “Traffic in a big city. Who'd have thought?”

 

     Sam glanced up at Dean, and the surprise on his face told Dean that he wasn't used to being scolded—not by people like Dean, at least. He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah.” At that moment the waitress came by to take their orders. Dean practically had the menu memorized by now, and Sam only glanced at it briefly before ordering what was obviously the first thing he had seen on the menu—because, seriously, who would possibly order a Strawberry Fields Forever Spinach Salad if they had looked at the entire menu? He hadn't even _turned_ to the burger page.

 

     Dean had, though, and he ordered a Bacon Cheeseburger with fries, adding a side of onion rings as well when he felt the disapproval radiate off of the man across from him. He almost added in a chocolate shake, too, just to hear Sam say, “Gross, Dean,” when he dipped his fries _into_ the shake, but he caught himself, remembering that's not who they were anymore. So instead he handed the menu back to the waitress, lips curling into a smooth smile automatically. When the waitress smiled back in appreciation he added in the wink without even thinking about it, flirting coming as easily as breathing. The waitress gave a little gasp and spun around, nearly colliding with a busser in her confusion. Dean looked up to find one of Sam's patented bitchfaces, and smirked before he remembered, _again_ , that that wasn't who they were anymore. The smirk fell off of his face and he reached into his jacket, pulling out his notebook. “So. Tell me what's going on.”

 

     Sam leaned back and the bitchface disappeared, only to be replaced with what Dean instantly named in his head as “Lawyer Face.” Dean thought he preferred the bitchface. “Jo had been working a case for me for the past three weeks, so she hadn't been into the office for a while. Then, last week she called me and said she thought she had found something, but she wanted to tell me about it in person, and not at the office. We were supposed to meet up at a coffee shop down the street, but she never showed. I figured she had just gotten held up somewhere, and she would call back to set up another time, and I put it out of my mind. It wasn't until the weekend that I realized that she had never called me back—I tried calling her, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I went by her place, but there was no answer. I had been knocking for about twenty minutes before her neighbor came out and told me she hadn't been there for about three days.”

 

     Dean looked up from writing in his notebook and said, “She was missing for three days _before_ you called Ellen?”

 

     Sam looked down and fiddled with his silverware. “I didn't know. There was this trial I was preparing for—”

 

     Dean cut him off. “Jo is _family_ , Sam.” Sam looked up at him and started to say something, but, Dean waved his hand in the air and said, “Right, yeah, I forgot, that doesn't matter to you.”

 

     Sam closed his mouth and looked back down at the table before looking up again. “Dean, I—”

 

     “So what was this case she was working on, anyway?”

 

     Sam sighed, and then rolled his shoulders and sat up straighter. The effort made him seem even taller, even sitting down, and Dean had to fight the urge to sit up straighter in return. “Murder. Or rather, several murders.”

 

     Dean felt his jaws clench even tighter—at this rate he was going to need some serious dental work soon. “You had Jo investigating a serial murderer?”

 

     “She wasn't the only one. And she certainly wasn't one of the main ones. In fact, she was kind of stuck with the 'when you eliminate the possible, it's time to consider the impossible' scenarios. She was so far out of the loop on this one it wasn't even funny. We both were. In fact, this wasn't even an official investigation—that way, if it ended up that the investigation was a wild goose chase the waste of taxpayer's dollars wouldn't go on my record.”

 

     “Or, if the investigation had panned out, then the credit wouldn't go on hers,” Dean said in a tight voice.

 

     Sam blinked. “Why would that matter? She's not the one who will someday be running for office.”

 

     Dean leaned forward, “No, but she is the one putting her ass on the line. And I'm thinking that if she had been working for you in any kind of _official_ capacity then she would have had someone watching over her. Someone she checked in with regularly.” Sam opened his mouth at that, only to be cut off by Dean adding, “Someone who gave a shit.” The last words were so hard it was kind of amazing they weren't still laying on the table between them like bullet casings.

 

     Sam flinched back for a second, and then leaned forward as well. “Jo _wanted_ this case. She begged for it. She knew that this was the kind of case that got you noticed. Got you promoted. I think you're forgetting that, unlike you, Jo has ambition.”

 

     The chill that settled over the table was so profound that Dean was surprised the window didn't have hoarfrost snaking up the glass. It was broken when the waitress reappeared with their meal, setting the plates down in front of them before asking, cheerfully, “Anything else I can get you boys?” The question was supposedly for the both of them, but her eyes were on Dean.

 

     “No,” he said, all traces of flirting gone. She looked confused for a moment, and then left. Across the table Sam sighed and scrubbed his hand across his face.

 

     “Jesus, Dean, I didn't mean that. God, why do we always have to bring out the worst in each other?”

 

     For a minute Sam was Sammy again, all lanky uncoordinated limbs and puppy dog eyes, and Dean couldn't resist saying, “I dunno, man. I guess it's just a brother thing. Cain and Abel shit.”

 

     Sam snorted. “Well, I hope we're not _that_ bad.”

 

     Dean couldn't stop the small smile that flitted across his face, and was instantly rewarded with a matching, tentative smile from Sam in return. Sam dropped his eyes to the food in front of him and said, his voice so quiet as to be nearly inaudible, “Look, I get that this is all my fault, I really do—”

 

     Dean cut him off. “No, man, I'm as much to blame here as you.”

 

     Sam looked up incredulously. “What? How do you figure _that_?”

 

     Dean shrugged and picked up his burger. “If I had been able to convince Jo to stay and work with me she wouldn't have been here at all.”

 

     Sam goggled at that for a moment, then shook his head. “Tell me, do you feel guilty for cloudy days, too? And earthquakes?”

 

     Dean shot him a look over the top of his burger. “Nah. I like cloudy days—means less freckles for me in the long run. As for earthquakes,”—and here he winked— “well, I _have_ had a few chicks tell me I made the Earth move.” He took a bite of his burger and moaned appreciatively around the edges.

 

     Sam shook his head affectionately. “Gross, dude.” He stabbed a few pieces of spinach and a strawberry slice with his fork.

 

     Dean ate a few more bites of burger and then picked up a fry. He looked at it in a considering manner for a moment and then said, “So tell me about this case Jo was working on. The serial murderer.”

 

     Sam sighed and poked at his salad, clearly mining for strawberries—apparently, the _Forever_ in _Strawberry Fields Forever_ meant three. “We're not even sure it's a serial murderer. I mean, yeah, the vics are all young women, but that's really about all they have in common. And while two of them happened only a month apart, the one before that was nearly a year earlier.

 

     Dean leaned forward, taking a sip of his drink. “But Jo thought they were related.”

 

     Sam nodded. “Yeah, Jo was convinced of it. And she convinced me, too. She thought the gap in victims wasn't a sign of their being unrelated, but rather a sign of us not finding the missing victims yet. That's what she was doing when she disappeared: looking for other victims.”

 

     Dean sat back and frowned. “Where was she looking for other victims? Missing Persons is not the most dangerous of places. Unless you're afraid stupidity can be catching.”

 

     Sam snorted in what was clearly agreement. They'd both dealt with enough Missing Persons forms while growing up to learn that that was the office where many police departments sent their least inspired detectives. He reached forward and grabbed an onion ring off of Dean's untouched plate, as if he knew Dean had only ordered the extra food to annoy him. “Jo was looking for girls that hadn't been reported missing yet. Or had been reported missing somewhere else, but ended up here.”

 

     Dean eyed the plate of onion rings territorially for a moment, and then pushed it into the center of the table, looking at Sam's salad. Clearly the guy was grease-deprived. “Runaways, you mean.”

 

     “Exactly.” Sam looked out the window and then back at Dean. “Did you happen to walk around the area at all before we met?”

 

     Dean huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Heard some shitty reggae and nearly got my pocket picked.” _And got bitch-slapped by a pair of the bluest eyes I have ever seen_.

 

     Sam nodded. “So then you know what's it like down here. It's a constant parade of people coming and going, some of them—many of them—with either no address or a long list of constantly changing ones. Makes it nearly impossible to tell when someone has gone missing. Unless, of course, you happen to be one of them.”

 

     “So Jo was asking around places where homeless girls gather? That seems like a pretty big job for a city this size.”

 

     Sam grabbed another onion ring. Dean thought that he should probably just give up and push the whole plate over to him, but instead he reached out and grabbed one of the remaining few for himself. Sam didn't notice: he was too busy contemplating the one in his fingers. “That's true. But for some reason Jo was convinced that this was the area to check. She said she just had a hunch.”

 

     Chewing his pilfered onion ring thoughtfully—although, now that he thought about it, he couldn't really pilfer his own onion ring—Dean knew that he of all people couldn't argue with “the hunch.” Sometimes it seemed like half of the cases he solved could be attributed to “the hunch.” He'd run into another detective once who'd said that hunches were just your subconscious' way of taking all the clues you'd already gathered, figuring out the answer and hitting your conscious mind with a clue by four, but Dean hadn't really been interested in the hows and whys of hunches. He just cared that so many times they were right.

 

     “Is that why you had me meet you here?”

 

     Sam looked down at the now empty onion ring plate in front of him, seeming to realize all at once that he was the reason it was empty. A vaguely nauseous look passed across his face. “Well, it certainly wasn't for the food. Jesus, I forgot what a bad influence you were: I'm going to have to run and extra five miles tonight at least.” He reached into the attache case at his side and pulled out a file, which he handed across the table to Dean. “There's also another reason I wanted to meet you here, and not at my office.”

 

     Yeah, Dean had thought that had been kind of weird; he had assumed Sam would have wanted to show off a little bit by meeting Dean where he worked—unless, of course, he was more ashamed of Dean than he was proud of his work. All he said though, was “Oh?” and flipped open the file.

 

     Sam leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Jo was also convinced that there was someone in the office who was slowing down the investigation. That's the other reason she was working for me off of the books.”

 

     Dean glanced up from the file. “And do you agree?”

 

     Sam put his chin in his hand and looked out the window again. “I don't know. It's real easy to disguise interference as incompetence. And trust me, there's enough incompetence that hangs around any government office to disguise a _ton_ of interference. But it just doesn't seem like something Michael would put up with—not when it comes to a serial killer, anyway.”

 

     “Michael?”

 

     Sam looked back at him. “Sorry. My boss, Michael Milton. The DA. He built his rep on putting away a pretty serious serial killer back in the 70s.”

 

     “The 70s? Guy must be older than God.”

 

     Sam smirked. “Not quite. Actually, I have no idea how old he is—doesn't really look a day over fifty, but of course he must he in his seventies by now at least.”

 

     Dean raised his eyebrow. “Clean living, huh?” he said as he popped a now cold fry into his mouth for effect.

 

     “Hardly. I don't think I've ever been in his office when he didn't have a glass of single malt in his hand.”

 

     “I like the guy already.”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     Dean heard the weight of unsaid words behind the one that Sam let slip out. “What, you don't?”

 

     Sam shook his head. “No, of course not. Michael's great. And brilliant. And really, really easy to work for.”

 

     “But?” Dean prompted.

 

     “But nothing. He's a great boss, a great asset to the city, and I'm lucky he hired me right out of law school. I owe him everything.”

 

     Dean let it drop. Clearly Sam wasn't ready to spill whatever doubts he had about his boss.

 

     Sam looked his watch before he said, “I need to be getting back to work.” He then reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. As he pulled out a considerable stack of bills Dean realized he wasn't just paying for his half of the meal—he was paying _him_. That sent such a sick feeling plunging to the pit of his stomach that Dean was amazed he didn't puke on the table right then and there.

 

     “No,” he said. His voice was the low growl of a dog that is through warning you and is now getting ready to rip your face off.

 

     Sam sighed. “Dean, this is a _very_ expensive city. And I can't even offer you a place to stay. Take the damn money.”

 

     Dean hadn't really considered that he wouldn't be staying with Sam, but it made sense if they were trying to keep this on the down low. He thought back ruefully to that hundred dollar bill he had handed out earlier. Oh well—he could always hustle some pool—Oakland looked like the sort of place with _lots_ of seedy bars. He shook his head at Sam. “I said 'no.' Family doesn't pay family.”

 

     Sam pulled out bitchface number twelve. “Right. Family only puts family through law school and then doesn't even bother showing up at graduation.”

 

     “Or funerals.”

 

     They glared at each other for a minute, all of the earlier feelings of camaraderie draining out of the booth. Dean was the first one to break the silence, pushing himself up and out of the booth explosively. He pulled out his own wallet and took out a twenty, which he dropped on the table dismissively. “I'll be in touch,” he said, holding up the file in his hand as if to say, “About this. _Only_ about this,” and then stalked away. He waited for the sound of Sam's voice calling him back—Sam always hated when Dean stormed out during arguments—but there was nothing.

 

 

     Nothing at all.

 


	2. Tower of Song

Chapter Two

Tower of Song

 

Cas watched yet another tourist scurry away and mentally kicked himself. Leonard Cohen? Seriously? This was so not a Leonard Cohen crowd. Especially not later Cohen, although he didn't think they would be too receptive to anything along the lines of “giving me head on the unmade bed,” either. This crowd wasn't ready for anything past “Suzanne,” if that. Hell, even David—or whatever he was calling himself these days, Moon Pocket or something—had been making more money than Cas was. He shook his head and told himself to get back in the game. He looked at the people around him: it was a Wednesday, which meant that most of the people in the square were on vacation. They weren't in Dubrovnik, which meant that they weren't the adventuresome types, but they weren't at Fisherman's Wharf, either (at least not yet), so they were at least a little on the wild side. Or liked to think they were. Okay. Wild, but not really. He thought for another second (covering it up, like he always did, by pretending to tune), and then figured it out.

The Rolling Stones.

He'd start off slow then work up to the faster stuff. He made out a four song playlist in his head, started playing “Sweet Virginia,” and then let his brain do what it had been trying to do ever since he had gotten to the square that afternoon and seen what had been waiting for him: think about the green-eyed man.

Holy Mother of Fuck, but that had been a beautiful man. Too bad he had been in the process of buying a piece of (female) ass when he had first seen him. Cas thought back to the hundred dollar bill he had seen being shoved into Rebecca's hand (what was her street name? Star Skirt or something), and wondered exactly what the guy had been buying. You could get a blow job for forty.

Or at least that was what Cas had always assumed they cost. He arrived at that number by taking the amount he was usually offered to suck someone off—twenty bucks—and doubling it, assuming that most people would start off by trying to lowball you. Since he had never taken anyone up on the offer he wasn't entirely positive about his numbers, but he was pretty sure they were at least in the ballpark. He found himself wondering what he would have done if the green-eyed god had been one of the guys offering him a twenty to suck him off, and thought probably offered to make change. He felt himself stiffen in his pants at the thought of that, and had to drop his guitar a little lower to cover it. Jesus, maybe his cousin Gabriel was right: maybe he really did just need to get laid.

He thought about the last guy Gabriel had set him up with and shuddered at the memory. Cas had met him at a bar before they went out for dinner, and as the guy had been paying for his drinks a packet of lube had fallen out of his pocket. Instead of having the decency to look embarrassed the guy had simply picked it up off of the floor and raised an eyebrow at Cas before saying, “Or maybe we could skip dinner?”

“Yes, let's,” Cas had replied and walked out. Gabriel had called him up later that night, livid.

“You know,” he had said, “there's absolutely nothing wrong with sex for sex's sake.”

“I know, Gabriel,” he had said, and it was true, he did know that. In theory. In practice, however, the thought of having sex with someone he didn't know—someone he didn't cherish, and who, ideally, cherished him in return—was just a major turn off. Which made his reaction to the man earlier that much stranger.

Not only did he know almost nothing about the man, what he did know (that he bought sex from girls barely out of childhood) was disgusting. And yet he couldn't seem to make himself forget the way those green eyes had stared at him like he was looking at something no one else could see, something that was hidden just beneath the surface of Cas' skin.

Something amazing.

Cas started in on the fourth song. He had worked up the tempo so that now he was playing “Can't You Hear Me Knocking,” and all the middle-aged Rolling Stones fans had finally caught on and were gathered in front of him in a loose circle, tapping their feet and nodding their heads while their wives stood around trying not to look bored. He put everything into the song, dropping his voice down to a growl that was somehow reminiscent of both Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, and pulled out all the stops to play what should have been the saxophone solo on his guitar, leaning back and half-closing his eyes as he played the notes. When he jumped back into the chorus the crowd spontaneously burst into applause, and he smiled to himself as he saw people reaching for their wallets. He ended the song to a flutter of bills going into the hat he had placed on the ground in front of him, and mentally tallied it at around thirty bucks.

So, less than a blow job. But more enjoyable, at least on his side.

Most of the crowd wandered off, and he began playing a mix of songs, trying to find the prevailing mood again. Trevor Hall, David Gray, Ben Howard—nothing seemed to generate more than a few polite dollar bills, so after a half hour or so he decided to simply play his own songs for a while. If he was going to be the only one listening he might as well enjoy it. He was singing a song he had just written the night before, his eyes cast down to his fingers when he sensed someone walk directly up to him. He glanced up, prepared to look welcoming and friendly (according to Gabriel the look didn't come naturally to him, and Gabriel must have been right, because once Cas started practicing it his tips increased exponentially), but the welcoming look he was trying to form froze on his face as soon as he saw who it was he was aiming it at.

His fingers fumbled on the strings, and that pissed him off, because that never happened, and so not only did he not manage his “welcoming” look, what he shot out instead was a downright scowl. A scowl that was directed at the same green-eyed man who had just been occupying his thoughts.

The object of his scowl picked up on it immediately and answered with a scowl of his own. Still, when Cas finally manged to finish the song (since it was his own composition no one would ever know that he had cut it off early. What? There were a lot of eighty second songs out there) the guy pulled out his wallet and dropped a twenty into Cas' hat. It sat on top of all the other bills and gave a small flutter: the wind was coming up off of the water, and unless Cas dropped some coins on it it would soon blow away. That was the disadvantage to using his short Greek Fisherman's style hat instead of something deeper, like a bowler hat. The advantage, of course, was that when he was done playing he didn't have to walk home looking like Dick Van fucking Dyke.

Cas was about to reach into his pocket for the spare change he always kept there just for that purpose when something made him pause. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, as if to say, “Yes? You wanted something?”

Gabriel also always complained that Cas seemed to think he was much easier to read than he actually was, but the guy in front of him seemed to understand the question just fine.

“Looking for some information,” he said, and I say goddamn! but his voice went straight to Cas' dick. It wasn't even a voice so much as it was a growl, and before Cas could help it he was imagining what it would sound like pressed up against his ear as Cas was pressed up against a wall. He felt his dick give an interested twitch at that thought, and Jesus, get it together, man he thought to himself. Again. He looked down at the twenty pointedly.

“Did you enjoy the song?”

“What?” The word squeaked out of the guy's throat, his eyes widened and he swallowed, almost like Cas had made him uncomfortable, but really, it wasn't that strange of a question, was it? Maybe Gabriel was right.

The guy cleared his throat and seemed to recover. “Oh, yeah, it was great.” He said the words in a rush, not even bothering to try and lie. Cas felt his eyes narrow at that. He hated being patronized. The guy continued, moving on from the subject dismissively. “But what I'm really looking for is information.”

Cas thought again of the hundred dollar bill he had had seen the guy pushing into Star Pants' hands and reevaluated his original assumption that the guy had been trying to buy sex. Good luck with that, he thought. Streets kids would give up their ass a hell of a lot quicker than they would give up information. Hell, for that voice, he probably would, too. But that was not what was going on here. Cas saw that now, saw the tiny smirk that was playing on the other man's features, as if he had just bought Cas for twenty bucks and now was only waiting for Cas to realize it and slip on the collar.

The wind lifted up one corner of the bill, and Cas knew that it was a second away from blowing out of the hat completely. “I take money for singing. Not talking.”

It didn't absolutely make sense, but Cas was sure he had gotten his point across when the guy's eyes narrowed. “You take money from strangers. You're already just engaging in a form of glorified begging: what difference does it make what you have to do to get it.”

Despite the phrasing it wasn't really a question at all, it was a statement. A statement of dismissal and scorn. Cas felt the blood rush to his head, and for a moment he found himself thinking how satisfying it would be to toss down his guitar and beat the satisfied smirk off of the man's face, but then the wind finally caught the twenty and pulled it out of the hat like a magician with a rabbit, and before Cas could do anything the bill spun up between the two men briefly then whipped off across the square and away.

Cas didn't even bother following it with his eyes. He stared at the man in front of him, blue eyes locked on green, until finally the chatter of a family with young children broke the spell. He glanced at the family—there were four girls under the age of ten, all dressed in various shades of PINK!PINK!PINK! and he didn't hesitate before launching into a medley of Disney princess songs. It was only a moment before one of the girls picked up on it and ran to stand in front of Cas, cutting in front of the green-eyed man to stare up at Cas in awe. Soon the rest of the family followed and there were four little girls looking at him like they couldn't quite believe he was real. He smiled at them as he played and absolutely refused to watch the man walk away.

So there was certainly no way he saw the amused and appreciative glint in his jade eyes.

 

* * *

 

Dean walked away from the busker slowly, smiling to himself. It had been a while since someone had done such a good job of non-verbally telling him to fuck off. Not that he didn't deserve it: calling the guy a glorified beggar had been sort of a dick move. He watched from the edge of the square as the father in front of him dropped a few bills in the hat, smiled, and turned away, gathering his happy children around him as they walked off toward the water. He saw the guy reach into the pocket of his pea coat and pull out a few coins to sprinkle over the bills, weighing them down against the wind. He thought of the twenty the guy had let blow away, and found himself smiling even wider. Goddamn, but the guy was something. If Dean had been here for any other reason he would have been tempted to go back and try to apologize—maybe even offer to buy the guy a drink.

Dean watched as a new group walked up and the guy started playing some animated song that made his right foot tap and his eyes close as he played. The throaty growl of his voice floated over the square to Dean's ears, and he amended that last thought. Maybe offer to suck the guy's brains out through his dick instead.

Jesus. It wasn't often that Dean was attracted to guys, but when it did happen it always hit him hard. And that was a distraction he didn't need right now. He turned and walked away, thinking about where Star Shine would go with her fresh new hundred dollar bill. No, scratch that: he knew exactly where she had gone—he had seen the track marks on her arm when he had grabbed her, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that she had gone somewhere to score. He walked in the direction he had seen her go and stopped in front of the first guy he saw leaning up against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He pulled out another twenty and folded it up into a small square before holding it in front of the guy's face and then stepping away again. He walked half a block to the first alley he came to and ducked down it, not even looking over his shoulder to see if the guy was following him.

That might have been a mistake, because when he turned around he saw not only the one guy he had been expecting, but two others. It was like that, then.  
“Where would I go to shoot up if had just scored enough for a room?”

The guy didn't look surprised at all at Dean's question. Dean, also, wasn't too surprised—he knew he looked like a cop. The guy held out his hand. “Money first.”

Dean just looked at him. He knew he looked like a cop, but he also knew he didn't look stupid. “Information first, asshole.”

The guy looked over his shoulder at the thug to his left and opened his mouth to speak. Dean wasn't sure exactly what the guy was going to say. Could have been “Can you believe this guy?” could have been “Sic 'em, boy.” Didn't matter. That was the beauty of fighting with people who were never going to call the cops—you didn't have to wait for them to throw the first punch.

Dean leveled his fist at the man's jaw—the poor sap was still looking over his shoulder and so didn't even have time to tense up. The blow spun his head so far back that Dean thought he might have snapped the guy's neck. The force of the hit sent him backwards into the second man, and before either men could recover Dean kicked out at the third man, his boot making contact with his knee. The man's leg bent backwards at a sickening angle, and Dean was sure he heard the knee snap as it hyper-extended.

As soon as his foot was back down on the ground he slammed his fist into the first guy's side: the blow to his jaw had spun him around enough so that Dean had easy access to his kidneys. The guy dropped to his knees with a cry and Dean reached over him to grab the now panicked second guy by the throat, pulling him over the first guy as his fingers squeezed down on his trachea. He felt something break under his fingers, and the guy made a sound like he was choking on something—probably his own blood, Dean thought dispassionately—before Dean threw him down on top of the first guy. Only then did Dean reach into the waistband of his jeans and pull his gun from where it rested against the small of his back. He flipped the safety off and pressed it to the temple of the guy with the fucked up knee. The sound of it being cocked was unnaturally loud against the whimpers and sobs in front of him.

“Where?”

“San Marcos. Down on Everly Street.”

“You're lying and I come back and break the other one.”

The guy sobbed. “Not lying. I swear. Please.”

Dean looked at the other two men. “Thanks for the help.” He uncocked his gun and slipped the safety back on before tucking it back into his jeans. He then put the twenty back into his wallet—it had never left his hand—and sucked on a knuckle that had split on the first man's face as he walked out of the alley. He didn't look back.

The first street vendor he asked pointed him in the direction of the San Marcos, and Dean found it easily enough—the strung out kids flopped all over the front steps certainly helped. Dean stepped over what he might have otherwise assumed to be a filthy bundle of rags as he walked into a dim lobby. He could see the marks on the floor where there had once been furniture, but now there was only empty tile and an echoing openness. He walked up to what had once been a reception desk but now was just a narrow opening covered in bars. The girl working the desk didn't even look up at his approach, her interest being caught instead by the paperback in her hand. The cover showed a smooth-chested man in what Dean could only think of as a fucking blouse holding a swooning girl in a ripped red dress with one hand while his other clutched a bloody sword. The man's face stared out from the cover and Dean noted briefly that his eyes—startlingly blue as they were—had nothing on the guitar player's eyes from the square. Fuck me, he groaned inwardly. This was not good.

“Looking for Star Shine.”

Dean didn't reach for his wallet yet—anyone who read bodice rippers was obviously open to other means of persuasion first—and when the girl looked up he flashed her his most charming smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle up at the edges.

“Ngh.” The breath left the girl's mouth in a huff as she took in the sight of Dean in front of her. Dean kind of wished he had just gone for the twenty: the girl's breath smelled like ass. When she spoke he could see why: her teeth were all but black. He felt his smile falter briefly, but managed to hold it long enough for her to say, “Room 316. Got here about an hour ago.”

“Thanks,” he said, and winked almost as an afterthought. The girl honest to god whimpered at him.

“Sure.”

Dean jogged up the three flights—he didn't even bother looking for an elevator—and stood outside room 316, his ear pressed to the door. After a moment he heard a low throaty giggle, and tried the door knob: it turned slowly under his hand and he eased the door open before stepping inside quietly and shutting it behind him.

He looked at the scene in front of him. Star Shine was lying on the bed, her shirt off and her arms stretched out above her so that he could see the dark patches underneath her arms. Either she was naturally not that hairy or she was new to the whole hippie scene, because there was only a five o'clock shadow at most. What was more interesting though were the small firm breasts Dean could clearly see, as well as the dusky nipples. Well, one dusky nipple at least. The other was currently being covered with slobber by the dread-locked douchebag who had been playing the guitar. He looked like he was about to fall asleep in the middle of whatever it was he thought he was doing, and Star Shine looked like she didn't give the slightest of fucks. In other words, they both looked high as balls.

“Hey, Star Shine.” Dean made his voice as conversational as possible so as not to startle the girl too badly. He needn't have bothered: she was pretty much startle proof right now. She rolled her eyes over to him lazily and smiled.

“Hey, it's the scary hot dude. Come to join us?”

Dean thought about putting his mouth where Douchebag's mouth had just been and thought nothing had ever sounded less appealing. Sloppy seconds had never been his thing. It had nothing to do with the fact that the girl's eyes were a dull brown, or that her voice was too high pitched. Nope, nothing at all. He kept all that out of his tone though as he said, “No, I'm good. But I am here to collect.”

Her brow wrinkled, and she started to look a little concerned. Concerned enough to push slobber-boy off her tit, at least, thank fuck. The guy slid off, leaving a snail-like trail behind him before he lay still next to her, dead or passed out—frankly, Dean didn't care which. “What do you want?” Her concern was beginning to turn to fear.

Dean stepped forward to soothe her. A little fear was good—a lot and people started to tell you anything they thought you wanted to hear. “It's okay. I just need some information.”

The fear didn't leave her eyes. “It's not good to talk to people.”

And, then again, sometimes a lot of fear was exactly what the doctor ordered. “It's worse not to talk to me.” Dean's voice was as calm as he could make it: he had discovered that staying calm was more terrifying for the person being questioned than losing his cool. On the bed Star Shine nodded in agreement.

“Yes.”

He didn't know if she was agreeing to talk, or agreeing with what he just said. It didn't really matter. “Sit up,” he snapped. She obeyed him so quickly he could tell her head spun, and she turned a little green around the gills. “If you puke on my shoes I will kill you,” he added.

It wasn't a real threat—more like a conversational aside, for him at least—but she didn't know that, and a small shiver ran through her entire body. Goose bumps broke out all down her arms, and her nipples sharpened into points. Watching them, Dean realized that Douchebag hadn't managed to make them do that earlier, despite—or probably rather because of—all his slobbering. She reached for a shirt that was lying near her on the bed, but Dean stopped her with a word.

“No.”

As far as torture went, being chilly wasn't really that far up the line, but Dean knew that ninety-nine percent of all torture was psychological, and unlike a bone it was impossible to tell how close someone's psyche was to breaking. Case in point: Star Shine in front of him shivered once more, then went into a full body shudder. Before she could start convulsing from fear Dean took the file folder Sam had given him earlier out from inside his jacket and placed four pictures from it in front of her. Almost as an afterthought he pulled a fifth picture from his pocket and put it next to the others.

“Tell me about these girls.” He didn't bother starting with “Do you recognize any of these women,”—never leave them with a yes/no choice if you could avoid it.

Star Shine wrapped her arms around herself and looked down. She picked up the second picture and said, “This is Amy.”

“Amy?” Dean asked. “Just Amy? Not Amy Astronaut or something?”

“Just Amy. She wasn't around long enough to pick out her street name.”

“If she was here for such a short time, how do you remember her name?”

“I stole her sleeping bag her first night.”

Dean nodded as if that was all the explanation he needed. And it was. “Go on.”

She picked up another picture. “And I think this is Seed Bank.”

“Seed Bank? Seriously?”

Star Shine looked up at him and tilted her head as if to say, “I know, right?” and for a minute Dean could see the person underneath. He stomped down on that feeling hard. He had a job to do. “What'd you steal from her?”

“Nothing,” said Star Shine. “She took off not long after I got here.”

The way she said it made Dean think that that was the only reason Star Shine hadn't robbed her. “Anyone else?” he asked, although knowing that at least two of the four girls were from the area was more than enough of a reason for him to start digging further. Then Star Shine picked up the fifth picture—the one of Jo.

“This one,” she said. “This one for sure.”

Dean fought to keep the interest out of his voice. “Why for sure?”

“Because she was asking questions about these pictures, too, just last week.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Star Shine looked up at him like he was stupid. “Nothing. I told you, it's stupid to talk to people. And that's what I told Cas, too.”

Her voice was becoming slurred, and her shivering had stopped. Den figured he had about thirty more seconds before whatever she had shot up with put her in the same condition as Douchebag. “Cas?'' he asked. He made his voice as threatening as possible, and she flinched.

“Yeah, Cas. I told him not to talk to anyone. Not to tell. But I saw him talking to her anyway.” She shook her head and her eyelids sank to half mast. “Shouldn't talk to people...”

“Who's Cas?” Dean asked, reaching forward to give her shoulder a shake. Her head flopped back and forth on her neck.

“Ow,” she whined. “Cas is... Cas. Guitar player. Thinks he's better than us.” At that she giggled, her fear of Dean obviously fading in the shadow of her impending nod. “Is better than us, with that voice.”

Dean felt himself still. “Voice?” he asked.

Her eyes fell all the way closed. “Yeah. Like Cigarettes and Sex had a baby and named it Whisky.” And then she was out.

Dean looked at her passed out on the bed in front of him and then, with a sigh, rolled her onto her side before covering her with the shirt she had been reaching for. He left Douchebag on his back—let him choke to death on his own vomit, Dean didn't care. Dean told himself the only reason he felt different about Star Shine was that he couldn't get more information out of her if she was dead, and not because of the brief glimpse of person-ness he had seen.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Regardless he now knew what his next move had to be, and he fought down the thrill that came with knowing he was going to have to seek out the hot guitar player from the square, because there couldn't be anyone else she had been talking about. With that thought in his mind he gathered up the pictures from the bed and slipped out of the room, careful to lock the door behind him as he went. And then he headed back toward the square.


	3. "I'm Your Man"

Cas sat at the bar and swirled his glass a few times, watching the way the amber liquor clung to the sides. He was drinking a tumbler of fifteen-year-old Laphroig, and he put his nose in the glass to inhale the peaty aroma before taking a small sip and smiling in appreciation. It had been awhile since he had allowed himself the indulgence, but then again, it wasn't everyday he found twenty bucks in the alley at the far corner of the square. True, he had gone to the alley to look for the twenty, knowing that that was where stray bills usually ended up (if they didn't blow out to the bay), but still, he counted the twenty he was spending as found money, and as such didn't feel the need to account for it the way he usually did.

He was trying to decide if that line of reasoning extended to him ordering another (including tip it would be a little more than twenty for the two drinks) when the bartender slid another drink in front of him anyway. He started to protest when he saw the bartender nod at someone over his shoulder, and without turning to look behind him he finished off his first drink and picked up the second. “Thanks,” he said, lifting the second glass to his lips.

“Slainte,” he heard from beside him, and then the green-eyed man from before was slamming a shot of his own. “I think that's Irish for 'sorry about being a dick earlier,'” he said. 

Holy fuck, Cas thought, as the whisky made the man's voice ten degrees sexier. Cas tried to keep his own voice neutral as he spoke. “Actually, I think it means 'to your health.'” He took a small sip of his drink and looked up into the mirror opposite to see the green-eyed man watching him closely. “But thanks all the same.”  
“You're welcome.” Cas turned in his seat to look at the man beside him, and the man held out his hand. “Dean Winchester.”

Cas held out his own hand and tried not to think girlish, romance novel thoughts about the way Dean's hand felt calloused and smooth at the same time, and how nice that firm grip would feel on his cock. Instead he focused on the man's eyes and said, “Cas Krushnic.”

In the dim light of the bar Cas saw that the man—Dean, he reminded himself—was staring back at him with the same intensity Gabriel always accused him of staring with, and for the first time Cas understood what Gabriel meant when he said it was unnerving. He didn't look away, though, and after what felt like a solid minute the man—Dean, Cas reminded himself again, resisting the urge to roll the name over his tongue—finally looked away, down the bar and in the direction of the bartender, who was watching them curiously. Cas came in here one or two times a week, usually for a beer or two, occasionally, when he could afford it, for a tumbler of Laphroig, but never with anyone else. Dean signaled the bartender to pour him another shot and the man walked back over, picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and poured Dean a generous shot. He looked at Cas, but Cas' second drink was barely touched, and Cas shook his head 'no.'

“How long have you been playing guitar?”

Cas picked up his glass and took another sip, enjoying the way the whisky burned down his throat. “Since I was a kid,” he said. “Why?”

Cas could tell that Dean didn't give a shit how long he had been playing guitar, that much was obvious from the way he had asked the question. And Cas also had the feeling that Dean wasn't the type to engage in small talk if all he wanted was to bend Cas over the nearest table and fuck him. So that meant he wanted something else. And Cas didn't have time for Dean to try and smooth talk him out of—or into—whatever that was. He had to be in San Francisco early tonight: the open mic gig he hosted on Wednesdays was always short-handed, and he had to get there early to handle the sign ups. Last time he tried to let the cafe handle it by themselves they had let someone sign up who played the autoharp and sang like Snow White on helium. The sound of her voice had almost literally made his balls try and crawl up inside his body to hide.

Thinking back to that debacle was enough to make Cas glance at his watch—he knew it was rude, and his mother, if she had still been alive, would have certainly given him hell for it. He closed his eyes briefly. Jesus. He hadn't thought of his mother in forever. He opened his eyes again, and became aware that Dean was still talking. Something about how he had really enjoyed his guitar playing, how he was really talented, blahblahblah. He didn't have time for this.  
“No. Why are you talking to me?”

Next to him, Dean threw back his head and laughed. Unlike the words that had been spilling out of his mouth, the laugh was genuine, and Cas couldn't help but notice the ways his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he did it. Dean looked like he was in his early thirties, but the lines around his eyes—laugh lines—could have belonged to a seventy year old man. Clearly Dean had lived his thirty odd years hard.

He stopped laughing and reached for a file folder that Cas hadn't noticed before on the bar in front of them. “Man, my bullshit powers must be in serious trouble. Okay, here's the deal.” And with that he opened up the folder and pulled out some pictures that were on top. Before he closed the folder back up Cas saw that the papers underneath the pictures were marked Alameda County District Attorney. He almost pushed back from the bar at the sight of that, but was struck instead by the last picture that Dean pulled out. He reached out and picked it up.

“I know this girl. She spoke to me last week. I think she said her name was Jo.”

Dean leaned forward, and Cas could feel his excitement. “Yeah, that's right. Her name is Joanna Beth Harvelle, and she's missing.”

“Friend of yours?” Cas was curious. The man seemed like a professional—not a cop, certainly, but definitely someone who was comfortable approaching strangers for information. A private investigator, then, or a bounty hunter. He hoped it wasn't the latter: he had liked Jo. She had tipped him because she had liked his music, of that he was sure.

“Worse,” Dean said. “Sister.”

Cas tilted his head, as if to say, “Tell me the rest,” and to his surprise, Dean complied.

“Adopted sister. Her mom practically raised me and my brother. And now she's missing, and I got to find her.”

“And the others?”

“Three of them are dead. Other one is missing, too. But frankly, the only one I give a shit about is Jo. The thing is, though, she was looking for the other missing girls when she disappeared, so...”

“So if you find them, you find Jo.”

“That's the idea.”

Cas picked up one of the other pictures and looked at it closely. “She was asking about this girl as well. Is Jo a private investigator like you?”

“Kind of. She was working for the DA.”

“Michael Milton?” 

Cas dropped the photo as if it had burned him, but Dean didn't seem to notice. “That's the head honcho, right?” Cas nodded, and Dean shook his head. “No, one of his grunts.”

Cas noted Dean's lack of response to Michael's name, as well as the fact that Dean hadn't denied the like you part of his question. He reached down and picked up the rest of the photos and studied them carefully. “She also asked about these two women. But not this one.”

Dean tapped that photo with his finger. “That girl hadn't gone missing yet.” He looked at Cas appraisingly. “You have a good memory.”

Cas dropped the photo and picked up his glass and drained it. “Memorizing song lyrics will do that to you.”

“So you know all the words to 'Hotel California' then?”

Cas looked over at the other man and noticed the dusting of freckles strewn across his cheeks. It wasn't fair that one person should be so beautiful: maybe his taste in music was his fatal flaw. “If I did I'd never admit it.” And there was that laugh again. Shit. He took it back: he'd sing the Eagles' entire songbook to hear that laugh on a regular basis. Which was why he needed to leave. Now. He set his glass down and dropped the twenty on the bar before standing up.

Dean reached out and put his hand on his forearm, and Cas felt his dick give an interested twitch at the contact. Jesu fucking christ. What was he, twelve? “Hey, man, I got these.” 

Cas smiled. “I know. That's your twenty.”

Dean glanced at the bill on the bar in disbelief, and then smiled. “Son of a bitch. But seriously, I'd really like to talk to you some more.” Cas glanced down at the hand still on his arm, and Dean withdrew it. “I, uh, I mean about this.” He waved his hand vaguely at the file on the bar. “I could really use any help I could get.”

Cas tilted his head, trying to read Dean's face, but only saw sincerity. “I'm not a detective. I doubt I could be any more help to you than I was to Jo.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you were more help than you thought. She is missing, after all.” Cas opened his mouth to say that that was hardly his fault when Dean cut him off. “Look, what I mean is, maybe there was something you said that led her to start looking in the right place. Anyway, I really don't have time to be retracing all of her steps. If you could just tell me exactly what the two of you talked about I would really appreciate it. She's been missing five days already: I'm running out of time here.”

Dean's voice cracked slightly at the end, and underneath the laughter and the smiles Cas could see the fear, tamped down and kept under control, but there nonetheless. Suddenly he was reminded of Jimmy: Jimmy had always said that only a fool wasn't afraid, but only a bigger fool would ever let that fear control him. Cas glanced at his watch again and sighed. He had a sinking feeling he was going to show up just in time to see Snow White. He shook his head. “I don't suppose we can have this conversation on the road? I have to be in San Francisco in two hours to host an open mic.”

“Two hours? I thought the city was just across the bay?”

“'In this case, 'just across the bay' equals two ferries and three buses.”

“What if you drive?”

Cas snorted. “At this time of day? Maybe an hour and a half. And about twenty dollars worth of tolls. And that also assumes I have a car. Which I don't.”  
“But I do. And,” and here he plucked Cas' twenty off of the bar, “I seem to have money for the toll as well. Come on, what do you say? We can talk in the car.” When Cas still hesitated he added. “I can give you a ride back, too.”

Cas told himself that it was that—the thought of not having to fight the alcohol-soaked crowds on the return trip—that convinced him, and not the thought of spending a few hours in Dean's company, but he knew he was lying. Still, he put up a little more token resistance. “How do I know you're not an axe murderer?” he said with a smile.

Dean smiled back. “You don't. But I'd never take the chance on getting blood on my baby's upholstery, so as long as you're in the car, you're safe.”  
Cas hesitated a moment longer, and then reached out and picked up the picture of Jo again. He really had liked her—she had reminded him of his cousin, Anna. “Okay, he said. “It's a deal.”

 

* * *

 

Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and questioned his sanity. Why was he waiting—double parked, no less—for a strange man he had just met an hour before? Cas had made a joke about Dean being an axe murderer, but the truth was that as far as Dean knew he was the last person Jo had been seen talking to. Not that he really suspected Cas of having anything to do with any of this, but still, he felt like a rookie for trusting someone who wasn't family so quickly.

His train of thought was interrupted by the subject matter himself opening the back door of the Impala and slipping a hard shell guitar case into the back seat. Cas had said he needed to stop home first to change his clothes and grab his “real” guitar—apparently the one he used to play on the square was “a piece of shit”—Cas' words—that Cas only used for busking. “That way it doesn't matter if it gets stolen or rained on—well, not as much, at least,” he had said, and Dean had just nodded dumbly, as if he had any idea of the difference between a good guitar and a piece of shit. Dean had been too focused on the way Cas' mouth had quirked into a smile as he disparaged his guitar to really take in anything he had been saying. 

He had managed to pull it together long enough to listen as Cas gave him directions to his apartment, though, and had definitely been paying attention when Cas had given him his cell number, in case Dean had to circle the block while he waited. The chances, Cas had said, of Dean finding a parking spot nearby were somewhere between slim and none.

When Dean had first pulled up he had instantly seen what Cas had been talking about: he'd have been lucky to find a place to park a Gremlin here, let alone his baby. However, between walking back to get her and fighting the one way streets enough time had passed that he felt comfortable blocking the street for a few moments waiting for Cas. And he had been right: he had only been waiting for a moment before Cas was in the seat next to him.

“Nice car,” Cas said, and Dean had to bite back the urge to groan. Good looking and good taste, too. He sternly told himself—yet again—that he was working a case here, and willed his dick to calm the fuck down.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. “She belonged to my Dad.”

“Was he the original owner? Turn right at the end of the street here.”

“Nah, second. But he loved her like he was the first.”

“As do you. Take a left at the third light.”

Dean looked over at Cas to see if he was teasing him, but Cas' face was impassive. “Yeah. As do I.” The formal phrasing of the words, which had sounded natural coming out of Cas' lips, felt strange in Dean's mouth. He cleared his throat. “Anyway—”

“May I?” Cas asked him, picking up the file folder that sat on the seat between them.

Dean hesitated. He really shouldn't let just anyone look through the file—one of the first things he had learned was the importance of keeping all of your cards close to your chest—but something kept telling him that Cas wasn't “just anyone,” and so he shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Cas opened the file and pulled out the pictures again, placing them on the dash in front of him. “Is this the order they disappeared in?”

They were at a stoplight, so Dean could take the time to look over at the pictures critically. “Yeah.”

“And the first three turned up dead?” When Dean grunted in confirmation Cas continued on. 

“Do their parents know?”

Dean shrugged. “I assume so. They have names attached to them. But if they were all street kids, then maybe not. I don't know.”

Cas looked at the pictures critically. “Well, at least one of these girls was only a part-timer, so I'm assuming her parents have been informed, at least.”

“Part-timer?”

“Yeah. Part-time street kids. Kind of like Rebecca, who you met earlier.”

“Rebecca? You mean Star Shine?”

Cas laughed, a low chuckle that filled the front seat of the Impala and sent soothing fingers down Dean's spine. God, that was a sound Dean could get used to hearing. “Sorry, in the two years I've been playing the square she is the fourth 'Star Shine' I have met. It's easier for me just to remember their real names.”

“They tell you their real names?”

Cas looked over at him, his blue eyes piercing. “They do. Once I explain I only want to be able to help their parents identify the bodies.” Dean returned his look for so long that he didn't notice the light in front of him changing, and the car behind them gave an impatient honk. With a frown he pulled forward, and Cas continued. “I'm trying to impress upon them the dangerousness of a life on the streets. Sometimes they heed my advice and go home for good. Sometimes,” and here he gestured at the pictures in front of him, “they don't.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, and then asked, “So, when you say 'part-time' street kids...?”

Cas snorted. “I mean that they are only street kids when they want to be. A lot of the kids you see begging around the square have homes in the suburbs that they go back to when they get too dirty or too tired playing hobo. The same kids I see walking barefoot in the square one weekend are back in town all dressed up for clubbing the next.”

Dean nodded. “That explains why some of the girls weren't reported missing right away. Their parents didn't realize they were really gone.” He spoke the words to himself: he was used to testing out his theories by speaking out loud, and was kind of embarrassed to realize he had just done it with Cas in the car. 

Cas, however, didn't seem to find anything unusual in the detective next to him discussing theory. In fact, he nodded in return. “So maybe this isn't really the order the girls disappeared in.”

Dean was so stunned he nearly stopped the car. Of course. He felt a moment's chagrin that Cas had made the leap of logic first, but then tamped it down: a good investigator took leads anywhere they could find them. “Christ,” he said, “you're right...” He thought for a moment, trying to decide how this changed things. He looked out the window at the bay below them—they were on the first of two bridges now. He was glad they were in a middle lane—he didn't think he would like looking at the visual proof of his baby 200 feet up in the air. Finally he shook his head. “Shit, I can't add this new info in until I get my case board pinned up.”

“Case board?” 

Dean gestured with his hands. “Yeah, you know, like on TV, where you pin all your information up on the wall? Most detectives tend to be very visual—well, it helps when you're searching for clues—and it's just makes it easier when everything is all laid out in front of you.”

Cas nodded. “I understand. It's like drawing a map in the sand before you attack.”

Dean looked over at him sharply. A military analogy was not what he had expected. Damn, this guy just got more interesting all of the time. All he said though, was “Yeah. Something like that.”

“You haven't set up your 'case board' yet?”

They reached the toll booth, and Dean was distracted for a moment paying the toll. Jesus, Cas hadn't been kidding about the twenty bucks. “No. I just got to town a few hours ago. I still have to find a place to stay.” He looked over at Cas. “Anything cheap around the square?”

Cas grimaced. “Well, there's always the San Marcos.”

Dean responded with an answering grimace. “Not quite that cheap, thanks.” Cas raised his eyebrows slightly, and Dean read the question in his face. “I paid it a visit earlier when I went to talk to Star Shine.”

Cas stiffened. “Is that what you were discussing with her when I saw you the first time? Meeting up at the San Marcos?”

Dean noticed the stiffness of both Cas' tone and his body, and he realized that he probably thought Dean had gone to the hotel to fuck her. He shouldn't care that Cas thought that—what business was it of his if Dean had gone there to fuck her—but he did. “What? No, man, when you saw me before I was discussing how she should probably keep her hand out of my goddamned pocket.”

“You gave her money. I saw that.”

Dean realized that what he was about to say didn't make him sound too much better than a guy who paid street kids for sex, but, what the hell, he wasn't too much better than that. “I gave her money knowing that she would take it and get high. And then I tracked her down to the San Marcos so I could question her. People tend to spill so much better after they get their fix.”

“You gave a child money knowing she would buy drugs?” Cas' voice was cold, and Dean felt disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach. Well, he had certainly fucked this one up fast enough.

“Yeah, I did. I needed information. I'm not here to save some trustafarian wanna be street kid from herself. I'm here to find Jo.”

Cas was silent for a minute while they drove, and Dean wracked his brain to try and figure out what to say that could bring back the easy camaraderie of a minute ago. And then he wracked his brain to try and figure out why he gave a damn. Before he could come up with a suitable solution for either problem, though, Cas spoke again, and holy fuck, was his voice even deeper?

“Apologies. I know what's it's like to be so worried about the welfare of a friend that normal rules become meaningless. It was wrong of me to judge you when I have committed such sins of my own. Please, forgive me.”

Dean was struck by the absolute sincerity of the other man's tone, as well as the hint of sadness behind it. Before he could stop himself he blurted out, “Were they worth it? The 'sins' you committed? Were you able to help your friend?”

More silence, and Dean was convinced he had pushed too far—as usual—when Cas spoke again. “I was not able to help my friend. But I would commit all the same sins—and more—over again if I thought there was even the slightest chance it would have helped.”

Dean glanced over at him, expecting to see the back of Cas' head as he stared out the window, and was instead surprised to see those intense blue eyes focused on his own, pulling him in. He sensed rather than saw the traffic start to move around them again, and reluctantly tore his gaze away and back to the road. “Yeah,” said gruffly, “I get that. There are some people in your life you're willing to go to hell for.”

 

* * *

 

After Dean's statement about hell Cas found himself surreptitiously checking the other man's wrists and neckline for any sign of a tattoo that would signify having served in the military, but the sleeves of Dean's plaid flannel over shirt were buttoned at the wrist, and the t-shirt he had on underneath didn't show much more than the beginnings of Dean's clavicle. Just glancing at that, however, made Cas' dick perk up, and he shifted in his seat a little to relieve the pressure. The vinyl seat beneath him squeaked a bit, and instantly Cas' imagined how the seat would sound if he were to crawl across it and into Dean's lap, pressing their groins together as his lips and tongue traced the outline of Dean's collar bone before sliding up his neck and biting then sucking at the pulse point beneath his ear. He imagined Dean arching up beneath him, throwing his head back so that Cas could nip at his throat with his teeth as Cas slid his fingers up and underneath Dean's shirt, moving up the hard planes of his stomach until each hand settled on one of Dean's nipples, which he would tease and pull into hardness beneath them. Shit, Cas, gonna fuck you so hard. Cas was sure Dean would be into talking dirty.

Suddenly Cas felt himself get incredibly, painfully, hard. As casually as he could he pulled the file over his lap and willed himself to calm down. What the hell was the matter with him, anyway? He hadn't been this horny since he was in his early twenties. To distract himself he flipped open the file and started turning through the pages. Dean glanced over at what he was doing, and said, “Careful, there, it gets pretty graphic in some places.”

No sooner had he said that then Cas flipped over a coroner's report and saw a full color picture of a young girl's back cut so deeply that bone was showing through in places. His erection died completely, although not so much because of the gore—Cas had seen plenty of gore—but because of the pattern the cuts formed on the girl's back. It was the Milton Family crest.

Well, a stylized version of it, at least. He knew that the two vertical slashes—the ones on either side of the spine—were supposed to represent the arms of justice, and that the vaguely sunburst cuts scored into the shoulders and arms were the branches of the tree of knowledge. The circle in the middle, where the flesh was gouged out all the way down to the spine, was supposed to represent the sun—or, as his Uncle Lucifer had decided, when he adapted the crest for his own, the son. In other words, himself. Cas would know that symbol anywhere: it had been carved into the ceiling above his bed when he was growing up, and no amount of paint over the top of it could ever hide it completely. He had asked about it, once, when he was younger, but his Uncle Michael had shouted at him that he was making it up, that the mark was invisible now and he was just trying to cause trouble by insisting he could see it. He should be grateful to have been given Lucifer's old room—it was one of the best rooms in the house, with views all the way out to sea—and he should start learning to express that gratitude instead of making up stories about the family. And, Michael had added, glaring at the rest of the family seated around the large dining room table, if anyone else had something to say about Lucifer they could come see him in his office. Anytime.

The silence at the table had been palpable, with adults and children alike all looking down at their plates in fear of Michael's wrath. Cas had only been nine—and had only been living under the same roof as Michael for less than a year—but he had learned enough in that time to know when it was best to follow everyone else's lead and not ask any more questions. It wasn't until later that night that his cousin Balthazar had come into his room and told him what the deal was. Balthazar had lain on his bed, smoking a pilfered cigarette. Balthazar was nearly five years older than Cas, and had recently taken up smoking—and swearing, it seemed.  
“Shit, Cassie, you really stirred up Mickey tonight.”

Cas sat cross-legged on the bed next to him. He didn't complain about the cigarette—his mother smoked all of the time. When he got older he thought he would start to smoke as well. “I didn't mean to. I just wanted to know about this.” And he pointed up to the ceiling without looking.  
Balthazar squinted beside him. “I can barely make it out. I had this room for years before you, and I never saw it once. How did you ever even notice it?”  
Cas shrugged. “When the light comes in just after sunrise it really sticks out.”

Balthazar snorted. “Well that explains why I never saw it. There might be two five o'clocks in the same day, but you couldn't prove it by me.” He blew a long stream of smoke out of his mouth and Cas watched as it spiraled lazily up to the carving on the ceiling, temporarily obscuring it in its haze before the smoke was pulled out the window Cas had opened as soon as he saw Balthazar light up.

“What is it?” Cas asked.

Balthazar squinted at it, and then closed his eyes. “Lucifer's mark. Obviously.”

Cas stared at him, waiting for him to go on. When he didn't—when he took another drag off his cigarette instead, and then casually flicked the ash onto the polished wooden floor of the bedroom—Cas asked another question. “But why did Uncle Michael get so mad when I asked about it?”

Balthazar looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Didn't you ever eavesdrop on your parents? Surely they talked about it.”

Cas shook his head. “I don't eavesdrop. And even if I did, I don't remember my parents ever talking about anything...at all.” The truth was he didn't really remember enough about his father to even imagine him having a conversation with his mother. Supposedly Cas had been four when he had left, and four was certainly old enough to remember someone, but the truth was he had no real memories of his father, only a vague sense of his presence. He had remembered feeling loved, though, and that, he knew, was sometimes better than a real, physical presence. Just look at Michael's son, Uriel. Surely he would be happier with more of Michael's love, and less of his actual presence.

“Well, then,” Balthazar went on, unaware of the inner dialogue his question had inspired in Cas, “allow me.”

Cas looked at him expectantly, and Balthazar took another long drag off of his cigarette. He seemed almost nervous.

“You know how Michael has the biggest stick up his ass in the world when it comes to the church?”

Cas nodded his head, confused as to where this was going. “I know he is very...insistent...about all of us fulfilling our duties.” The Milton family compound had its own chapel, and there was a local priest who came twice weekly to conduct mass. Michael was livid if any member of the household ever missed it. Even the servants were expected to attend—missing just once was a fireable offense. 

Balthazar snorted. “Yes, insistent. Anyway, imagine Michael times ten, and you've got Lucifer. But the thing is, unlike Michael, Lucifer wasn't content just to ram his beliefs down his own family's throats, he also went out and spread the word amongst the great unwashed.”

“He liked to...proselytize?” Cas rolled the big word off of his tongue, proud of the chance to use it.

Balthazar looked at him sharply. “Jesus, Cassie, you're a freaky little thing, you know that, right?”

“Yes, I know.” Cas answered him calmly. He did know: how could he not? Everyone was always so happy to tell him.

Another drag on the cigarette. “Yes, well, anyway, Lucifer went out to spread the word. But, also unlike Michael, he didn't just use his voice and his fists: he used his dick. And a big fucking knife.” Cas stilled, not so certain he should be hearing this story, but Balthazar went on anyway. “What I'm saying, Cassie, is that Uncle Lucifer was a raging psychopath. He trolled the waterfront looking for whores, and when he found one he would pick her up, fuck her, and then kill her. Sometimes in that order. And when he was done with her he would carve his mark into her back and then burn out her eyes.”

Cas could hardly believe he was hearing this. Why, he wondered, would they put him in a room that had once housed a monster? Was it because he was a monster, too? He felt himself start to panic at the the thought, panic that they knew, but then he remembered that Balthazar had had the room before him, and while Balthazar was many things, he certainly wasn't a monster. He calmed down. “Where is he now?”

Balthazar shrugged. “Some nut house up north. Michael knows. He goes to visit him every year for Christmas.” 

Cas remembered the past Christmas—his first at the house—and the way there had been no tree, no decorations, and no celebration. Instead everyone had been ordered to spend the day in quiet contemplation. His uncle hadn't been around to enforce it, though, and he and his mother had ended up playing Scrabble all day down in the kitchen with the cooks. It had been fun. He felt bad now, knowing he had been having fun while Michael had been attending to the family duty. “Poor Michael,” he said, softly.

Balthazar sat up at that and stubbed out his cigarette on the bed frame before putting the stub in his pocket. “Poor Michael, my ass. Lucifer was the best thing that ever happened to him. It was recognizing the mark that helped Michael figure out that Lucifer was the one behind the 'Angel Murders.' From there is was a quick ride to the top.”

Cas knew that his Uncle Michael was the District Attorney, and he knew that the position was elected: he had had to pose for a family portrait to be used in the upcoming campaign just the week before, and his mother had been frantic to tame his hair into some kind of order. He had never really thought about how his uncle had gotten the job in the first place. “I see,” he said, slowly.

“Do you? Well, I'm glad at least one of us understands our fucked up family.” He stood up. “I'm off: I think I finally figured out where Gabriel hides his stash of Schnapps. Time for a little nite cap, I think, and then off to bed. See you in the morning, Cassie.” He paused at the door, looking at Cas. “You going to be okay in here? I mean, with this?” He gestured up at the ceiling.

Cas looked up, even though he couldn't really see the mark in this light. “What? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Thanks for telling me. I know now not to bring it up with Uncle Michael again.”

“You're welcome. Sleep tight, dear cousin.”

“Good night, Balthazar. Shall I wake you for mass in the morning?” 

“Christ.” Balthazar rubbed his face. “Yes, I suppose you had better. Fuck.”

And with that he left, leaving Cas to ponder over everything he had told him.

 

* * *

All at once Cas was brought back to the present by the voice of the man next to him. From the way he was saying his name Cas got the feeling he had been speaking to him for some time.

“Cas? Jesus, are you okay? Answer me, man.”

Cas looked over at him and frowned at the concern in the beautiful green eyes staring back at him. With a sinking feeling he realized that this was going to be the last time he would be able to look at them. It was stupid, really, to be so upset about it—after all, a few hours before he hadn't even known the man existed—but Cas knew himself, and knew that he had only ever felt this kind of instant attraction to someone twice before. It was a rare thing in his life, and he hated to have to walk away from it now. But walk away was exactly what he was going to have to do: there was no way he could get involved with something that concerned the Milton family. He had spent too many years putting distance between himself and them to take the chance on the family coming back into his life now. Hell, he'd even had to change his name. And besides, it wasn't just him he had to worry about now: he also had to think about what would happen to Amelia and Claire.

The thought of Claire was what finally propelled Cas to move. He looked around—they were stuck in traffic, again—and saw that they were only half a block from a BART station. He put the pictures all back in the file quickly and slammed it shut, dropping it on the seat between him and Dean before he unfastened his seat belt and said, “I'm sorry, I can't help you anymore.” He opened the door and quickly got out of the car, moving to the back to grab his guitar. He had it out of the back seat and was crossing in front of the car on his way to the station when Dean opened up his door and got out as well. Shit.

“What the fuck, man? Talk to me. I need your help here.” Dean looked confused, and a little angry. And, Cas thought, a little disappointed as well. His lips were turned down into a frown that pushed his bottom lip into a pout that Cas found himself longing to suck between his own lips and bite at until Dean opened his mouth and let Cas lick the roof of his mouth. Cas stepped forward to do just that when the car behind them honked. Traffic was moving again.

“Check out the 'Angel Murders.' Sometime in the early 80s, I think.” Dean's brow wrinkled in confusion, and he opened his mouth to speak. Cas cut him off before he could say anything else by surging forward and pressing a kiss to his lips. Dean's mouth opened in surprise and Cas barely had time to sweep the tip of his tongue against the tip of Dean's before another honk sounded, and he pulled back quickly. “I'm sorry,” he said, and then he turned and darted away, not exactly running, but not exactly not running, either. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder as he slipped into the crowd on the sidewalk, and before he knew it he was down the stairs of the BART station and on a train moving steadily away from Dean Winchester and all of the unnecessary complications he brought to Cas' life.


	4. "Take This Longing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Cas sings with Angela is M. Ward's "Never Had Nobody Like You."

 

 

Son of a bitch.

Dean got back into his baby to a chorus of horns and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. Not only with the way Cas had obviously freaked at the pictures, but also at the fucking amazing kiss he had laid on him before he had bolted. Holy fuck, but that was the hottest kiss he had ever had in his life, and he had had a lot of kisses, both from men and women. In his experience men tended not to really care about the kissing so much—they would much rather just get down to business, rough and quick. That was what Dean liked about sex with men: the rawness of it, the barely controlled brutality. He'd save the tender moments for his times with women. But the way Cas had just kissed him suddenly made him realize that maybe it was possible to have both, and goddamn, but wouldn't that be something?

He shook his head. Why was he thinking about kissing a guy who clearly had issues when he had just gotten a clue for his case? He mentally kicked his own ass before flipping open his phone and calling Sam.

Talking to Sam left him with more questions than answers. Sam knew exactly what Dean had meant when he said “Angel Murders,” but Dean would have never have guessed that at first—not from the cold silence that radiated out of the telephone at the question.

“Dean,” Sam had finally said. “This isn't about me, or my job. This is about Jo. I know you don't think being a lawyer is the most honorable of professions, or the most helpful, but—”

At that point Dean had cut him off. “What the fuck are you talking about, Sammy? I got a fucking lead and I'm asking you to help me check it out. Research. That's your thing, right?”

“But Dean, you have to know that that the 'Angel Murders' are how my boss got elected in the first place.”

Dean was tempted to pull the phone away from his ear just so he could glare at it. Sometimes Sammy was the dumbest smart kid he had ever met. “Uh, yeah, no, didn't know that. Didn't care. Do now, though, because it's a fucking clue. Jesus Sammy, do you really think I did a background check on you and everyone you know before I got here? I got the call from Ellen two days ago and drove straight here. I barely stopped to piss. I was like some crazy jealous astronaut.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, whether because Sam was trying to figure out the astronaut reference or because he was trying to think of the next thing to say Dean had no idea. Finally, though, Sam spoke. “You would have, though, if you had had the time, right?”

“Would have what?” Up ahead Dean saw the name of the street Cas had mentioned his open mic was on. Fuck it. He turned and was greeted by the sight of an empty parking spot. He parallel parked his baby with one hand (why was there never anyone around to see when he did awesome shit like that?) and turned off the engine while waiting for Sam to answer.

“Would have done a background check on me and everyone I knew.”

Dean sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “I would have done a check on everyone you knew, Sammy. But not you. What is there to know about you that I don't know already? Dude, I changed your diapers.”

Dean could picture the bitchface that comment earned him. “Yeah, well, in case you haven't noticed I've changed a little bit since then. Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do.”

“So what, you want me to run a check on you? Is that what you're saying?” Dean practically growled the words into the phone.

“No, Dean, I don't want you to do a background check on me. I want you to get to know me again. I want you to care.”

The last words were said so softly that Dean almost thought he had imagined them. His own voice dropped lower in response. “I care, Sammy. I always have. And I always will.”

The silence on the phone went on for nearly a minute, but Dean didn't speak again. The ball was in Sam's court now, and if he wanted to let it lay there on the ground Dean wasn't going to walk over and pick it up. Not this time. Finally Dean heard a deep shuddering breath, and then Sam spoke. “Okay, Dean. Okay.” He cleared his breath and then went on. “So. The Angel Murders. What makes you think they have a connection to these?”

Alright then. Moment over. Dean told himself he should be glad—he was the one who hated chick flick moments, after all. “I dunno. I met someone, and they suggested it.”

“You 'met someone'? And started talking to them about an ongoing investigation?” Sam asked him incredulously.

“Look, I can't explain it, okay? It was someone Jo had contacted, and we were looking through the file—”

“The file that has “CONFIDENTIAL” stamped on the front of it?” Sam was shouting now.

“No, Sammy, the file that has 'All the reasons my little brother is a total bitch' stamped on the front. Look, there's a reason I'm a private detective, okay. Let me work the goddamn case my way.”

There was a sigh, and then Sam said, “Fine, Dean. Whatever. It's just my job.”

“Yeah, what's Jo's life compared to that, right?”

There was silence, and then Sam asked, “So you think she's still alive?” Dean hated the hopeful sound in Sam's voice. Almost as much as he hated squashing it.

“No.”

He heard the hitch in Sam's breath, and he remembered being the one to have to tell Sam that their Dad had taken the dog Sam had brought home to the pound to be put down. (“He followed me!” Sam had said, even while he had had both hands locked around the dog's neck in a death grip.) He remembered how Sam had thrown himself into his arms and cried on his neck, tears and snot running down inside Dean's shirt, and Dean had just held him and rubbed circles into his back, knowing there was nothing he could say that would help. He wished he could still be that for Sam now.

But he couldn't. He wasn't that person anymore. And neither was Sammy. Sam.

Sam cleared his throat again. “Okay, I'll pull the files on the Angel Murders, but off the top of my head I can't see any connection. These bodies have all been found in the bay, and the Angel Murder victims were all partially burned, with the ash raked into a wing pattern around what was left. That's how they got the name.”  
Huh. Dean couldn't see the connection, either. He flipped open the file to the picture Cas had been looking at when he freaked out, and saw that it was a shot of the back of one of the victims. “Check out the thing that was carved into one of the girls' backs. See if there was anything like it at the Angel Murder crime scenes.”

“Okay. The files for the case have been digitized, but I'm pretty sure the originals are still in the archives. Maybe the originals have more information.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“It's Sam. And you're welcome.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, one more thing. Can you get your magic phone to tell me of any open mics that are happening on Polk street tonight?”

“Magic phone? Dude, it's called a smart phone, and everyone has one. Maybe you should consider giving up that Jitterbug of yours and moving into the 21st century.”

“Whatever, just do it.”

“Well, since I'm sitting at my desk I think I'll use my magic box instead.” There was the sound of keys tapping, and then Sammy came back with, “There's two of them. One at the Whistle Pig and one at the Windsor. Are you feeling the need to get your song on?”

“No, Sammy. You're the one that sang the Disney songbook at Ellen and Bobby's wedding.”

“I was fifteen. And I was drunk. You're the one who got me drunk.”

“Being drunk didn't make the words magically appear in your head, dude. That was all you.”

There was a grumble on the other end, and then Sammy said, “Dean, do me a favor, okay? Be careful.”

“I always am, Sammy.”

“No, you never are. But this time, try. And call me tomorrow morning, so I know you're okay.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. I already lost Jo over this case.” There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, and then Sammy continued. “I couldn't take it if I lost you, too.”

Dean wanted to say something flippant back, but Sam's voice was too real, too raw. “Okay, Sammy. I will.”

“It's Sam.”

Dean laughed softly, staring at the now silent phone. For the first time in a long time he felt the stirrings of hope that he might have his brother back in his life again. Too bad it took losing someone who was just like a sister to get there. He pocketed his phone and stepped out of the car, carrying the file back around to the trunk. Looking up and down the street to make sure no one was paying him any attention he opened the trunk and lifted up the false bottom just enough to slip the file in on top of the arsenal he travelled with. Even though most of his cases didn't end in violence, it was always better to be prepared.

Slipping his keys back into his pocket he headed up the street, looking for the bars Sam had told him about. He could have asked Sam for the exact addresses, but he needed to kill some time anyway, if for no other reason than to ask himself what the hell he was doing. Part of him answered that he was following up on a lead: clearly Cas knew more about these murders than he was willing to admit, and it was Dean's job to get all of the information out of him that he could, whether he was willing or not. It wasn't like Dean was unfamiliar with the idea of uncooperative sources.

Another part of Dean, however, called bullshit on that. That was the part that didn't care if Cas had any more information or not, but just wanted to feel those lips on his again. And another, much quieter part of him whispered that it was even more than that. That the kiss had just been the cherry on top, and that the real reason Dean was walking down the longest fucking street in San Francisco was that he wanted to feel that easy camaraderie again of Cas sitting next to him in the front seat, talking and laughing about everything and nothing in particular.

It took Dean about an hour to find the place Cas was hosting the open mic, mostly because he walked right past it twice before he realized that the awful sound coming out of the front door was actually supposed to be singing. It sounded like the noise Bobby had once made after he had slammed his finger in the door of a Prius and had to remember—and then punch in—the key code to get it opened back up again. Only with a whole lot less swearing. Dean stood still on the sidewalk out front and listened closer, trying to make out the words in the midst of the grunts and squeals. He took back his initial assessment: there was just as much swearing here, too. From what he could understand this was someone's song about either their dog dying or breaking up with their boyfriend. Or maybe breaking up with their boyfriend's dying dog? Christ, he didn't know: he just wished it would stop.

As soon as the thought entered his head the song ended, and after a polite smattering of applause he heard the unmistakable sound of Cas' voice, deep and rich. He sounded like he had his lips pressed right up against the mic, and his voice curled across the space between them and settled warm and comfortably in the pit of Dean's stomach, like a cat curling up on a hearth. Before Dean was even aware of what he was doing his feet had carried him inside the front door of the coffee shop (that was another reason it had taken Dean so long to find the place—he had been looking for a bar) and he had forked over five bucks just in time to hear the next abomination step up to the mic.

Not that they were that bad, not really, but they certainly weren't Cas. Dean bought a cup of black coffee at the counter (and, seriously, four bucks for a cup of coffee? This city was going to kill him) and made his way quietly up to a small balcony overlooking the tiny stage. As he climbed the spiral iron staircase that led to the balcony Dean felt the steps beneath him shake, and when he got to the top and took a sip of his (frankly awful) coffee he said a silent prayer that whoever made the coffee wasn't also responsible for building maintenance, because if they were then this whole balcony was going to fall out from underneath him any second.

He settled into a small table away from the edge, far enough back that he knew anyone on the stage wouldn't be able to see him, and waited. He was good at waiting, which always seemed to surprise the people who knew him, because he was such a man of action. The thing they didn't understand, though, was that for Dean, waiting was a form of action. Action delayed, maybe, but action nonetheless. As he waited he tuned out the sound of the latest person singing on the stage (not an easy feat, because the guy was playing a fucking banjo, and yeah, it was actually kind of okay, but still, who played a banjo?) and went over the case in his head. What he had so far was four missing girls (not including Jo), three bodies, and a possible connection to some murders that were over a quarter of a century old. What he needed to do was find out what the girls all had in common and then go to that common source.

He kind of wished he had brought the file with him, but then again it was never a good idea to flip through pictures of corpses when he was out in public. And besides, sometimes it was better to get away from the paperwork and let your mind concentrate on the parts of the case that didn't quite fit. That was what he liked so much about driving—it gave his mind a chance to review the material without the distraction of his conscious thoughts getting in the way. It was hard to explain: he had tried to, once, to Jo, and all she had said was “So that's why it always seems like you're not paying attention when you're driving: because you're not.” He remembered he had thrown the fry he had been about to put in his mouth at her, and she had snatched it out of mid air and popped it into her own mouth in triumph. “Ha!” she had said, until Dean had whispered, “I already licked that, you know,” which is what he had always said to Sammy to keep him from stealing his food when they were younger. Just like Sammy Jo had spit the fry out like it was poisoned and frowned the patented Harvelle frown at him—the one that made her look like Ellen—and Dean had laughed at her.

He almost smiled at the memory now, until he remembered that it was almost certain he would never get to see that frown again, at least not on Jo's face. And he certainly didn't want to have to be the one that put it on Ellen's. Down below him someone was singing a cover of Nanci Griffith's “It's A Hard Life Wherever You Go,” and Dean thought that there should be a special place in hell for people who did shitty covers of songs that weren't that great to begin with. He chanced a glance at Cas to see what he thought of it—he was supposed to be running this show, right?—but Cas' face was the definition of stoic. Or at least it was, until Dean saw a tiny twitch in Cas' left eye, and a slight tightening of his jaw, and Dean knew he was hating this as much as Dean was.

He smiled to himself for real then and went back to thinking about what the missing girls had in common. Well, they were all young—under twenty-five—but none of them looked too obviously young. All of them looked old enough to get into a bar—at least with a fake ID. Three of them had definitely been spotted in the area of Jack London Square, and Dean had a hunch that when he dug deeper he would find that the other one had been around there as well. Only one of the girls hadn't been reported missing—the second body found—but when the police had checked into her background they had found that her parents had been traveling in Africa when she had first gone missing (some kind of church volunteer work or something—dig a well, see an elephant, come back and tell everyone how it had “changed your life”) and so hadn't realized that she was even gone until they came back and found the message from the coroner's office blinking on their phone.

Basically, it sounded like the only thing the girls really had in common was their age and the fact that they had all been in the area of Jack London Square. But, of course, there were a million things in the area of Jack London Square—theaters, and bars, and drugs, and strip clubs and book stores and abortion clinics and medical marijuana dispensaries. There was any number of things they could have in common. Or nothing at all. They all could have been snatched randomly.

Dean rubbed his hand over his face and took another sip of his shitty coffee. Down on the stage below some girl was singing the breathiest version of “My Heart Will Go On” that Dean had ever heard; judging from the weak puffs of air coming out of her lips that she called “singing” Dean wondered whether her heart really would be “going on” at all. It was sad, really, but at least she had the balls to get up on stage and do it, which was more than Dean could say for most people, and therefore more than enough reason to keep his opinions on her to himself.

Unfortunately, though, not everyone seemed to share that sentiment—definitely the douchebag sitting at a table in the front didn't. Dean guessed from the guitar case sitting at his feet that he was waiting for his turn to go on, which explained even less why he would think it was okay to mock the girl who was currently giving it her all up on the stage. So she sucked. So what? No need to be a dick about it.

“Christ, save me from crappy covers,” the guy said loudly to no one and everyone. The girl on stage flinched, and Dean fought down the urge to dump the cold remnants of his shitty coffee on top of the guy's head. He tried to ignore the fact that he had been thinking something very similar not too long ago. The girl finished her song and went to hop off the stage, but Cas reached out and put his hand on her arm to stop her. He whispered something in her ear and she smiled a sad smile and shook her head. He whispered again, and she hesitated, and then finally nodded and stepped back on stage. Cas stepped up to the mic and said, “Angela has graciously agreed to sing one more song for us. With me.”

And then he started playing a bluesy song that Dean didn't recognize, but apparently that the crowd did, because they smiled and clapped when the song began. “Angela's” part was pretty miniscule: she strummed some basic chords while Cas played lead on his guitar, and Cas sang most of the song, with Angela only joining in on the chorus of “Like ABC” and “Like 1-2-3” and an occasional “yeah yeah.” The thing was, her breathy, tentative voice worked on this song, and whereas before Dean had been ready to write her off as pathetic he now heard something genuine and sweet in the way she sang. She would never be a belter like Celine Dion (thank fucking God for that, how many of those can one world take?) but she had her own style, and her own voice, and when it was all squished up next to Cas' throaty growl it sounded fucking awesome, and Dean found himself clapping and whistling along with everyone else when the song ended.

And then she was stepping off the stage and her smile was so bright and everyone was happy, except the douchebag sitting at the first table, and Dean thought, “Follow that, dickless,” when Cas stepped back up to the mic and said, “Who feels like a cover song sing-a-long?” and before the crowd had quieted back down he had launched into a spot-on acoustic cover of “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and the crowd was shouting the chorus back at him, and holy fucking shit when he got to the line, “You've got the peaches, I've got the cream,” Dean thought he was going to pass out from all of the blood rushing out of his head straight down to his dick, and that was when he stood up, took his jacket off and held it in front of him as he made his way stiffly (in so many more ways than one) down the stairs and out of the coffee shop, because he could not fucking do this, and he needed to get out of there right fucking now and between his raging hard on and the way his heart was beating a million miles an hour he could almost be forgiven for the fact that he didn't notice the three guys trailing him as he walked down the street back to his car.

Almost, but not quite.

 

* * *

 

Cas almost walked right past the alley without noticing anything. In fact, if it had been any other night, he probably would have, because on any other night he would have been part of the small, noisy crowd that exited the Windsor an hour after closing time, pleasantly buzzed from the beers Lisa kept in the dairy fridge for the closers to drink after they had swept up and did the last of the dishes. It wasn't his job to help with closing, it was just something he liked to do, a way to wind down from hosting the open mic. “Enthusiastic emcee” was not a normal part of his personality, and he liked the way that washing out coffee cups or pushing a broom across the floor seemed to center him back into his usual, contemplative state. Well, he called it contemplative, at least. Even if Lisa teased him about it being “leaden.”

Tonight, though, he didn't want the soothing comedown. He just wanted to finish up so he could begin the long trek back to his apartment where he could crawl into bed and quietly freak out. And maybe beat off to the thought of green eyes and a smell that was a combination of leather, gun oil and soap. He rubbed his hand across his face thinking about the fact that not only could he smell the gun on Dean when he had crowded up close to kiss him, but that it had turned him on even more. Was there even a kink for that?

He was still thinking about the gun, and Dean, and the kiss (fuck, there was no way such a short kiss should be so damn hot) when he stepped past the alley and heard the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked. And froze.

The next thing he knew his training was taking over, and after stashing his guitar behind a dumpster he was moving down the alley on silent feet. He looked around for a weapon and saw a construction dumpster up to his left—obviously one of the businesses around here was doing some remodeling. He slid up to it and looked inside, hoping to find a broken two by four, or maybe even a nice heavy piece of lead pipe. Instead all he saw was a mass of old computer equipment: monitors the size of Kias and dot matrix printers. He glared at the equipment for a minute, and then had an idea.

He moved down the alley again with his makeshift weapon in hand, half-convinced that he was about to interrupt a drug deal. He'd probably see one guy counting out some money while another nervously stood watch with his gun, cocking and uncocking it like he'd seen the neighborhood thugs do a hundred times before. Although he reminded himself that he hadn't heard the sound of a gun being uncocked again.

And even though he had been half-convinced about the whole drug deal thing, he honestly wasn't too surprised to see Dean at the back of the alley, blood flowing freely from a wicked-looking cut above his eyebrow as three guys formed a loose semi-circle around him and one held a gun pointed at his forehead.

Cas felt a flash of something—pride, respect, awe—at the way the three guys looked. One was clutching his side, clearly in a great deal of pain, one was holding what looked like a broken hand against his chest, and the one with the gun had a face that looked like it would be giving a good impression of a rotten tomato tomorrow. Clearly Dean had more than held his own—until the gun came out, at least. Cas briefly wondered why Dean hadn't drawn his own gun, but stopped thinking about it when the man with the gun took another step forward and pressed the gun so that it was flush against Dean's forehead. It was, Cas knew, foolish to get that close to a target, and he wasn't the least bit surprised when Dean dropped into a crouch and threw himself at the guy's middle.

The guy certainly was, though, as were the two men with him. Cas used their surprise to dart forward and wrap the cord from the printer he was carrying around the throat of the first guy, twisting it tight and tying it off before pushing him out of the way and elbowing the other man viciously in the face. While the first man choked and pulled at the cord he punched the second man in the throat, feeling his trachea crack under his knuckles. The man dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat. Not that it would do him any good, Cas thought dispassionately. Unless he got help in the next two minutes he would drown in his own blood. He turned around in time to see Dean standing over the slumped form of the third man, blood dripping from the grip of the gun he now held in his hand. They stared at each other for a second, green eyes meeting blue without blinking until they were both distracted by the sound of the first guy falling to the ground. He had been unable to get the cord off of his throat, and his blank eyes stared up at them grotesquely from his blue face.

Dean's eyes flicked back up from the guy on the ground—Cas noted, almost clinically, that Dean didn't seem the least bit put out by the ugly death the man was currently experiencing—to Cas' face. “You should get out of here,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Cas knew he should agree, but instead he just stared back at Dean, stared at the green eyes that were almost black in the dim light of the alley. He stepped forward and looked closer at those eyes. As he had half expected from the hunched way Dean was holding himself, as if it was taking all of his concentration not to drop to the ground, one of Dean's pupils was twice the size of the other. He clearly had a concussion. “You need help,” he replied.

“And you don't want to give it,” Dean snapped back.

Cas raised one eyebrow and looked pointedly at the men on the ground.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well, thanks for that.”

“You're welcome.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something else, but instead turned an alarming shade of green before he spun around and puked on the wall behind him. Wiping his mouth shakily with the gun still in his hand he muttered “Fuck, I sure hope they don't have my DNA in any kind of national database,” before he leaned heavily against a non-puke covered section of the wall.

“We need to get out of here,” Cas said. “You need to go to a hospital—you have a concussion.”

“Not my first,” Dean said heavily. “I'll be fine.”

Cas decided that the time for arguing was long past: they needed to get out of this alley like yesterday. Before Dean could consider saying another word Cas stepped up and snatched the gun from his hand. Using the suit coat of the man at his feet (now that Cas thought about it, all three of the men in the alley were wearing expensive suits) Cas wiped the grip as free of blood and hair as he could manage, flipped the safety on and then stowed the gun in the waistband in the back of his pants. He then pulled Dean's arm around his shoulder so he could start marching him out of the alley, but Dean refused to be budged. Cas started to say something to him but Dean just huffed out a “Hold up” before he stepped over to the man he had pistol-whipped and reached inside the man's jacket for his wallet. He put it in the pocket of his own jacket without opening it up, and then hesitated a minute before doing the same to the other two men. Cas saw him looking at the cord wrapped around the one man's throat for a minute, and then he shook his head and stepped away. Suddenly Cas felt defensive, which he knew was stupid: he hadn't had a choice, he told himself. Although, he thought, glancing at the unconscious (yet still living) man Dean had dispatched, he really did. He was about to say something—what, he wasn't sure—when Dean spoke instead. “Damn. I know there's a joke there somewhere about being killed by a piece of 80s office equipment, but I'm just too slow right now to think of it.” He put his hand to his forehead, and winced. “Sorry, Cas,” he said.

Cas just stared at him for a moment. Was he serious? He had just watched Cas kill two men, and he was apologizing because he couldn't come up with a good enough joke? Who did that? Before Cas could stop himself he answered his own question: a soldier, that's who. He didn't say anything, though, simply putting Dean's arm around his shoulder again to help him walk. He stopped at the entrance to the alley and grabbed his guitar in the other hand. “Where are you parked?” he asked Dean gruffly.

Dean paused, and for a minute Cas was afraid he wasn't going to tell him. Then Dean grunted, as if in resignation, and said, “Three blocks down. That way,” indicating the direction with his chin.

Cas didn't say a word, just helped Dean walk down the street. Luckily Dean's injury wasn't too obvious—to any casual passersby it must have just looked like one friend helping another drunk friend out. A few streetwalkers looked at them appraisingly, but Cas' glare was enough to send them on their way without even bothering to proposition them. When they got to Dean's car Cas pushed Dean up against the hood and rolled his shoulder gratefully. Dean was heavier than he looked. He must be solid muscle underneath all those layers of jackets and shirts. Cas' pants got a little tight at the thought, and then he chastised himself: this was so not the time for that.

“Keys,” he said. For a minute he thought that Dean was going to argue, but instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring with only two keys on it. One was obviously a house key, and so Cas used the other one to open the passenger door of the Impala and push Dean inside. Without thinking about it he opened up the rear door and put his guitar on the back seat.

He then stood on the sidewalk for a minute and looked at first Dean and then his guitar, both looking completely at home in the Impala. He sighed.

So much for his plan of seeing the last of Dean Winchester anytime soon.


	5. A Thousand Kisses Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: porns ahead.

“A Thousand Kisses Deep”

Dean slouched down in the front seat and leaned his head back while Cas climbed into the driver's seat. He started the car and pulled smoothly out of the space and into traffic before looking over at Dean.

“Don't fall asleep,” he said sharply.

“I know,” Dean muttered back, pushing himself into an upright position again. “Like I said, not my first time.” He reached forward, opened the glove box and rummaged around all of the various bandages and adhesives until he found what he was looking for: a bottle of Tylenol. “There you are,” he said softly; he opened up the bottle and shook four pills into his hand. He tossed them in his mouth and swallowed them dry, wincing a little when they stuck in his throat. Beside him, Cas sniffed appreciatively.

“That's some first aid kit you got there.”

Dean glanced over at him. “This? This is just the stuff I might need while I'm driving. The real one's in the trunk.” He kept a close eye on Cas to see how he would react to that piece of information, but learned nothing from the closed expression on Cas' face. Well, might as well go about this the usual way, then: head on. “What were you doing in that alley, Cas?”

Cas kept his eyes on the road as he tersely said, “Saving your ass.”

Dean raised one eyebrow at that and said, “Oh yeah? Who told you I needed saving?”

Cas looked over at that, his expression amused. It was, Dean had to admit, a good look on him. “I think the fact that you were currently being beaten by three armed men told me that, actually.”

Dean shook his head, and then regretted it. Ow. “Yeah, well, thanks again for that, by the way. But what I meant was how did you know I was in the alley in the first place?”

Cas shrugged. “I didn't. I just heard the sound of the gun being cocked and went to investigate.”

Dean considered that statement for a moment. First, how many people recognized the sound of a gun being cocked? And of those that did, how many of them went towards the sound, rather than away from it? That, coupled with the incredibly bad ass way Cas had taken out the two men (yeah, even though it involved a couple of guys dying, Dean was going to have a hard time keeping that one out of the spank bank) gave Dean all of the information he needed. Well, almost all of it. He then considered Cas' lean build, as well as the city they were currently in, and decided he had enough to make a pretty good guess.

“Navy Seal, right?”

Cas actually glowered. “Please. I hope my technique wasn't that sloppy.”

Dean laughed. “Right. Ranger, then?” When Cas didn't answer right away Dean followed that up with, “HALO, I'm guessing.”

Cas looked over at him then, and Dean could tell he was impressed. “Care to take me through your deductions, Sherlock?”

Dean smirked, and said, “Elementary.” And then he told Cas how he had connected the dots, finishing with, “I guessed SEALS first, because of your build, but since that was obviously not only wrong, but offensive, the next logical answer was Army Ranger. And, again, HALO because of your build.” Dean had been thinking how a lighter frame would be an asset when it came to hurling that frame through thousands of feet of air.

“Hmm,” Cas replied. “You seem to have given quite some thought to my, um, build.”

Dean snickered. If Cas was trying to embarrass him, he clearly didn't know Dean that well. Which, Dean reminded himself, he didn't. “Kind of hard not to notice it when it's pressing me up against the side of my car for a kiss,” he said drily.

“Hmm,” Cas replied again, but this time didn't follow it up with anything.

When it became clear that he wasn't going to, Dean added, “Care to explain that?”

“You didn't seem to mind it,” Cas finally said, and while, yeah, that was true, that wasn't really an explanation. And Dean told him as much.

Cas sighed and ran his hand back through his hair, making it even more sexily disheveled than ever before he cut his eyes over to Dean. “Look, you're an incredibly handsome man, I wanted to kiss you, and I did, okay? End of story.”

Now it was Dean's turn to go “Hmm.” And Cas was the one looking over at him.

“What?” he finally asked, looking away from the steering wheel he had been focusing on as the car sat waiting in traffic.

Dean turned so that he was facing Cas. “It just doesn't make sense.”

Cas sighed again. “What doesn't make sense? I'm gay, alright?”

Dean shook his head, and again regretted it. Because, again, ow. “No, not that. I mean, yeah, of course you wanted to kiss me: I'm incredibly handsome.” He ignored the way Cas rolled his eyes at having his words thrown back at him, even though it was kind of adorable. “No, what doesn't make sense is the running away part. You took down two guys with your bare hands—not just incapacitated them, but killed them. And yet I'm supposed to believe that one gruesome picture of a murder victim is enough to send you running? I don't think so. And then, of course, there's your cryptic clue about some decades old murder. No, I think it's pretty obvious that you know more than you're telling here.”

Cas pursed his lips together before opening them back up again, and for a minute Dean thought he was going to spill, but then the traffic in front of them started moving and he said, “You're right, I do. Which is why I can't get involved.”

“If you didn't want to get involved then why did you 'save my ass' in that alley?”

Cas looked over at him like he was stupid. “There's a clear difference between not getting involved and standing by while someone is being murdered.”

Dean snorted. “Is there? I don't know, I'm not really a 'big picture' kind of guy, but it's pretty clear to me that unless someone stops this guy more girls are going to end up dead.”

Cas squirmed uncomfortably, and Dean thought, got him. But then he spoke again. “That's true. Failure to act on my part will probably result in, at the very least, a delay in justice. However, acting itself will undoubtably draw attention to me and the people I care about, and my first obligation is to them. I'm sorry, Dean, I can't help you any more than I have.”

Dean couldn't fault his logic; after all, it made sense that Cas would first be concerned with shielding the people he cared about from harm. Dean felt a completely irrational surge of jealousy that he wasn't included in that group, but then pushed that feeling aside. “Yeah,” he said, “I get that, Cas. I do.” Dean reached into his pocket to pull out the wallets he had taken from the three men.

“Are you going to try and figure out whether out not that was a random attack or related to the case?” Cas asked him.

Dean snorted. “Oh, I know it was related to the case. The 'stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong' speech confirmed that for me.” He opened up the first wallet and pulled out a handful of cash. “Nice,” he said to himself, pushing the money into the front pocket of his jeans. He noticed Cas raising his eyebrow at that, and said, “What? It's not like I'm getting paid for this job. I told you: Jo's a friend.”

He then went through the rest of the wallet. “Joseph Dillon. Twenty-nine. Member of the YMCA, Soroptimists, and Blockbuster. Oh, and afraid of flying.”

Cas looked over at him sharply. “How do you know he's afraid of flying?”

Dean held up a small medallion. “St. Christopher's Medal. The friend of nervous traveler's everywhere. I should know.”

“You carry a St. Christopher's medal?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Hardly. But I've white-knuckled my way through enough flights to notice what my fellow sufferers are clutching. At least my fellow Catholic sufferers.” Dean went through the other two wallets, pocketed the cash, and then went through the rest of their contents. The presence of a prayer card (for, of all saints, St. Rocco, a name that made Dean snicker again) and a receipt for a donation to Our Lady of the Blessed Virgin Mary convinced Dean that all three of the assailants were Catholic. “And then there are the names,” he added, when Cas looked unconvinced.

“What do you mean? Their names were Dillon, O'Neill and DiRienza.”

“And don't those sound like good Catholic names to you?”

“Not particularly.”

But then Cas paused, and Dean said, “What?”

Cas shook his head, clearly unnerved at being caught out. “Nothing.” His eyes narrowed in concentration, but then cleared up again. “It's nothing,” he said again. Dean wanted to give him the speech about how when you were working a case it was never 'nothing,' but refrained. They weren't working this case: he was. Instead he sat up straighter and said, “Pull over.”

Cas looked at him incredulously. “We're in the middle of a bridge.”

“I know. Pull over.”

“Are you going to be sick?”

Dean glared at him. “If I was I would have already done it while you were arguing with me. Now pull over.”

Cas pulled over into the breakdown lane and Dean opened the door and lunged out of the car, darting over to the side of the bridge. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the wallets he had stuck back inside, and dropped them over the edge and into the water as inconspicuously as possible. He was back in the car in seconds.

“Drive,” he said.

Cas pulled back into traffic: not that there was much at this time of night. “What would you have done if I had pulled away and left you?” he asked Dean, his tone conversational.

“Shot you,” Dean replied, just as casually. He saw Cas nod, apparently agreeing with his line of reasoning.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, and then Cas said, “So why didn't you shoot those men back there?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “That was a mistake on my part. I thought they were just going to rough me up a little bit, warn me away. I didn't realize until the end that the plan was to kill me.”

“And you were okay with being 'roughed up'?”

“Sure, sometimes. As long as we have a safe word.” He winked, and then cursed himself for flirting so shamelessly. He felt better about it, though, when he saw Cas actually fucking blush. Before he could get pulled down into that particular rabbit hole (so Cas was more innocent than he let on?) he spoke again. “Usually, when people are hitting you, they let things slip. It's better than pillow talk for getting people to spill.”

“I see.” Cas drove on in silence for few more minutes. Dean could practically see the wheels spinning in his head. “And did they let anything spill?”

Dean opened his eyes. He had been dangerously close to falling asleep, and when he answered his voice was harsher than he had intended it to be. “I thought you didn't want to get involved?”

Cas' mouth set into a thin line. It wasn't a good look on him, Dean thought. His mouth should always be smiling and relaxed. That, or slack-jawed from mindless pleasure. Jesus, Dean, get a fucking grip.

“I was merely trying to make conversation in order to help you stay awake.”

Uh-huh. “Alright, so let's talk. Where did you serve?”

“Afghanistan.”

Dean nodded. “And by 'Afghanistan' you mean 'Pakistan,” right?” Cas looked over at him sharply, and Dean shrugged. “Those were the moves of someone who is not used to leaving their opponents alive.”

Cas seemed to sag in his seat. “Does that bother you?”

Dean made an inelegant sound deep in his throat. “That you killed a couple of guys who were about to kill me? Hell no it doesn't bother me.” He paused then, and looked more closely at Cas. “Does it bother you?”

Cas cocked his head to one side, like he was trying to read the answer off of a chalkboard that was just a little bit too far away. “No, it doesn't.”

“But it does bother you that it doesn't bother you, right?”

Cas shot him a look, and said, “How did you become a private detective?”

“Why?”

“Because you are very good at your job.”

Dean snorted and then looked straight ahead. “Yeah, well, you could say I was born to it.” Cas didn't say anything back, but Dean felt the question hanging unasked in the air and thought, fuck it, the guy just saved my life. “My dad used to take off all of the time when my brother and I were kids. My mom died in a fire when I was four, and my dad was convinced that not only had it been arson, but that the guy who did it was still out there, killing other women. He'd get a lead and take off, and I'd have to track him down and remind him that he still had two kids at home to support. Or at least pretend to support long enough to get child protective services off of our backs.”

“That sounds like a case where child protective services had every right to be on your backs.”

Dean took note of the way Cas parroted back idioms like he was speaking a foreign language and filed it away for further study. “Yeah, probably,” he said. “But that would have meant getting split up from my brother, and there was no way that was ever going to happen.”

“You are very close to your brother.” It was both a statement and a question.

“Yeah,” Dean said, wishing it was still that simple. “What about you? Any siblings?”

Cas shook his head. “No. My father also left when I was very young. I do, however, have many cousins. Some of whom I am quite fond of.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “I always wanted cousins. Hell, for all I know, I have a dozen. My dad never talked about his family much. And I got the impression that Mom's family disowned her when she married my dad, so, yeah.”

“And you never tried to find them? That kind of job seems like it falls well within your skill set.”

Dean shrugged. “If they didn't want to have anything to do with me, why would I want to have anything to do with them?” Dean thought back to all of the Christmases he and Sammy had spent alone, their dad off chasing a “lead” somewhere, and again felt the same flare of abandonment and vulnerability he had felt when he was small. He then took those feelings and forced them back down, deep, deep inside, where they belonged. He was starting to think this concussion had turned him into a giant girl. He cleared his throat and looked around, noticing that they were now back in Oakland. Which meant that they would soon be back at Cas', and that he would be driving away.

Alone.

Ugh. Giant, GIANT girl.

“So, um, thanks again for saving my life. And I understand why you're reluctant to help. I really do. For you, this is just about some girl who asked you a couple of questions. It's family for me. And there's a big difference there. I get it.”

Cas didn't speak, seeming to concentrate on maneuvering the Impala into a space that didn't look big enough for a Prius. Holy fuck, the way he handled baby was hot. When the car was parked he turned to look at Dean. “Come upstairs with me. You shouldn't be alone tonight.”

At first Dean thought he meant emotionally alone, because of his stupid confessions, but then he realized Cas probably meant because of the concussion. He reached up to his head gingerly, and was relieved that it was no longer throbbing. “No, man, I'm good. I think my head will be fine.”

Cas gazed at him as if he was speaking another language, and then in the blink of an eye was practically sitting on his lap. “I shouldn't be alone tonight, either,” he murmured huskily into the side of Dean's jaw, and well, fuck, that was it. Game over.

“Okay,” Dean said, his voice so low he was surprised the windows weren't humming in sympathetic vibration. “Let me grab my stuff outta the trunk.” He held out his hand and Cas stared dumbly at him for a moment, seemingly transfixed by the way the words came out of Dean's mouth, until he blinked once and then dropped the keys in Dean's outstretched hand. After staring at each other for another small eternity Dean broke eye contact to turn away and open his door. When he got out he swayed slightly, a cold sweat breaking over him, and he pushed his hand up to his head. His fingers came away tacky. Okay, so not doing as well as he thought. He put his hand on the roof of his baby and took a few steadying breaths: when he looked up Cas was staring at him from over the roof, but his stare wasn't the same as before: this one was all concern.

“Dean?” he asked.

“I'm good, Cas. Just give me a second.”

“Hmm.”

Dean made his way back to the trunk and grabbed his duffel. He looked up to see Cas waiting for him, guitar in hand. Dean flashed back to earlier in the evening when he heard Cas singing Def Leppard, and his dick gave an interested twitch. His head, however, chose that moment to give an larger throb, and he winced involuntarily.

“Come on,” Cas said. “It's this way.” Dean followed Cas into the same building he had seen him come out of earlier. Once inside Dean could see that there was a small foyer with about a dozen brass-fronted mailboxes with hand-written name tags on the front of each one. He glanced at them quickly and saw one marked Cas Krushnic 501. He looked around for an elevator, saw none, and groaned.

“Fifth floor walk up, hmm?”

“Yes,” Cas said, heading for the staircase. “I find it surprising that the apartment with the best view is actually the cheapest. I switched with another tenant on the ground floor only last month, and was pleasantly surprised to find my rent had decreased fifty dollars.”

“Plus you get to save all that money on club fees,” Dean muttered, putting his foot on the first stair. He nearly ran into Cas, who had stopped to turn and look at him quizzically.

“What club?”

“The athletic club. You know, what with your own Stairmaster and all.”

Cas frowned. “I see. Yes, of course.” Then he looked at Dean's bag. “Would you like me to carry that for you?”

For a brief moment Dean considered saying, “Hell yes.” He was exhausted from driving two days straight to get here, and then not one but two alley confrontations had left him with an adrenaline comedown that made him feel like he had run a marathon today—twice. But he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't carry his own bag up five flights of stairs, even if it was weighed down with a mini version of the arsenal he kept in his trunk. Besides, Cas was already carrying the guitar. “No, thanks. I'm good.”

Cas turned away without another word and went back to climbing the stairs. Dean let him get half a flight ahead of him and then followed, watching the way Cas' ass moved beneath a pair of well worn jeans. The scenery here was certainly better than any he had ever seen on a Stairmaster, that was for sure.

He got to Cas' apartment just as the other man was opening the door: Cas let him in and then turned to lock the door behind him, throwing not one but two deadbolts. Dean raised his eyebrows a bit at that, and Cas shrugged. “I need to feel secure when I sleep,” he said, and Dean remembered, oh yeah, Afghanistan. Cas set his guitar down and then disappeared into the next room, and Dean stood in the middle of a large room. There was a small kitchen off to his right with a battered red formica table and two mismatched chairs, and to his left was what he guessed was supposed to be a living room, but the only furniture he could see was a straight backed chair and a coffee table. There were built-in shelves all along one wall, though, and these were about a third of the way filled with books and albums, and on a middle shelf Dean saw an expensive looking record player. A healthy and thriving plant sat on the highest shelf, its shiny green leaves tumbling down almost halfway to the floor. Dean didn't know if this was surprising to him or not: Cas was a mystery. What was that expression? An enigma wrapped inside a conundrum? Something like that.

Before Dean had a chance to puzzle further Cas came back out carrying a towel. “Bathroom,” he said, pointing back to the room he just came out of.

Dean hesitated a minute, thinking about saying, “Nah, I'm good,” but the look on Cas' face told him it wasn't even worth the token resistance, so he just took the towel and said, “Thanks.” Cas' bathroom was as sparsely furnished as the rest of his place, but the water was hot and even though his shampoo smelled kind of fruity it didn't have the “bottle of lye” quality of most of the motel soaps Dean was used to using did, so it was kind of nice. It was also nice to wash off two days worth of sweat, dirt, and, apparently, blood, if the red swirling around Dean's feet was any indication. He washed his hair an extra time, just to make sure to get all of it out, and only when the water started running clear again did he reluctantly turn off the shower and step out.

As soon as he did he smelled the undeniable scent of bacon, and immediately felt his stomach clench in hunger. Lunch with Sammy seemed like a lifetime ago. He stepped out of the bathroom and quickly made his way to his duffel, which he had dropped in a corner of Cas' bedroom, avoiding looking at the mattress on the floor and the sheets still tangled up from when Cas had gotten up that morning. He was torn between putting on his sleep pants and the worn AC/DC shirt he had been sleeping in for years now and putting on a set of clean clothes and trying to look like he was not at a slumber party. In the end the smell of bacon drove him to stop his dithering and decide. Fuck it; he was tired and sore. He wanted to wear his PJ's.

When he came out into the kitchen Cas was standing with his back to him, slicing a tomato with quick, sure strokes. “I hope you like BLTs,” he said over his shoulder. “Well, BTs, actually. The 'L' somehow managed to achieve a semi-liquid state in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator. I think it's trying to escape.”

Dean pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. “Man, you had me at 'B.'” On the table sat an absolutely massive plate of bacon, a pile of toasted bread and an opened mayonnaise jar with a knife in it. Cas turned from the counter and set the plate of sliced tomatoes in the mix.

He looked at Dean but didn't sit down. “How's the head?”

“Better,” Dean said. When Cas looked disbelieving he added, “Really. The shower helped a lot. Thanks.”

Cas nodded once, seeming to come to some decision, and then turned and opened the fridge, pulling two beers out and setting them on the table before he pulled out the chair opposite Dean and sat down. “Then you can have one of these, too.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dean said, and was repaid for his snark with a brief smile flitting across Cas' face. Suddenly Dean wanted to see that smile again. And again and again. To cover his embarrassment he twisted the cap off of his beer and took a long drink. He was licking a drop of beer off of his top lip when he heard Cas sigh. He looked over at him but Cas was studiously involved in making some kind of Dagwood sandwich, which was even more impressive considering he was only working with two ingredients—three, if you counted the mayo, which Cas was slathering on in equally generous proportions.

Dean was suddenly worried that if he didn't make his own sandwich soon he would be left with nothing but scraps, so he put together his own masterpiece and set out to eat it. He noted absently that all of the plates on the table matched—they all had the same pattern of strawberries curling around their edges, and Dean was suddenly reminded of going to Missouri's house that one summer when he was twelve and Sam was seven, and the way Missouri would serve them buttered cucumber sandwiches fresh from the garden on her best china, because, she had said, they had to get used to being careful sometime.

When Cas finished his first sandwich he made himself another, and Dean did as well. There was nothing but the sound of contented chewing for almost twenty minutes, before they both finished at nearly the same time and then leaned back in their chairs with a sigh. There was one piece of bacon left on the table and Dean found himself looking at and then looking at Cas, who caught his look, gave that little half smile of his, and then grabbed the bacon and broke it in half, holding one half out to Dean.

“Here,” he said.

“Your piece is bigger,” Dean replied.

Cas held up both pieces and eyed them critically. He then nibbled the larger piece down so that it was closer in size to the other piece, and then held out the first piece—the one he had been nibbling on—to Dean. “Problem solved.”

Dean took the piece of bacon and popped it in his mouth, and god, eating a piece of bacon Cas had just had in his mouth was the hottest thing he had ever done. Apparently it had the same effect on Cas, because he shifted uncomfortable in his seat, watching Dean chew. “I should probably still wake you up every two hours tonight, just to be safe.”

And yep, Dean's brain—both the upstairs and the downstairs one—went to the same place with that, and he couldn't help the lascivious look that popped up on his face. “I'm down,” he said with a grin. He could've stopped the wink that came next, but he didn't. He felt oddly vulnerable in Cas' apartment, eating Cas' food, and the only way he felt like he was on familiar ground was to flirt outrageously. No one was better at that then him.

Cas' response was to growl low in his throat and say, “You will be,” before he surged up from his seat in one fluid motion and straddled Dean's lap. Scratch that: Cas was better at it.

Cas simultaneously pressed his crotch against Dean's and his lips against Dean's mouth. His first kiss was almost chaste, considering the way he was grinding in Dean's lap, but then Dean opened his mouth in a gasp and Cas swept his tongue inside, sweeping it over and around Dean's tongue in a move that couldn't help but make Dean wonder what it would feel like on his cock. Which, by the way, was rock hard in his sleep pants.

“Jesus, Cas,” he groaned, pulling his mouth away to breathe. He thrust upwards in his chair, sending his erection crashing into Cas, who, by the feel of it, was just as hard as he was. Cas groaned so deep and low in his throat that Dean thought they might have heard it in the street, and then bit down on Dean's neck so hard Dean wondered if he had drawn blood. Wondered, but didn't care, especially when he felt Cas' tongue flick out and soothe the spot he had just bitten with soft strokes.

Dean moved his hands—which, unbeknownst to him, had been clutching Cas' arms hard enough to leave marks—down Cas' sides to his lower back, where he used one hand to pull the tail of Cas' shirt out of the back of his pants, and the other to slip inside Cas' jeans and underwear and cup and squeeze at his ass. He trailed his finger up the crack and was rewarded with Cas groaning into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, where he was currently busy sucking a deep bruise into Dean's skin. “Wanna fuck you,” Dean murmured, and felt Cas shudder in his arms.

“Yes,” Cas responded, his voice already sounding completely fucked out, “please.”

Dean quickly pulled his hand out of Cas' pants and grabbed him underneath his legs, standing up so quickly that his chair fell over backwards behind him. Cas responded by wrapping his legs around Dean's hips and bringing his lips back to Dean's mouth, where he gave him the most filthy wet kiss of Dean's entire existence. The only thing that stopped Dean from sweeping the dishes off of the table and fucking Cas on top of it then and there was the worry that the dishes were some sort of family heirloom or something. Missouri's long ago lesson must have sunk in more than he realized.

Of course, Missouri was not who he wanted to be thinking about right now, not when he had an armful of Cas. Although, as delicious as that was, it wasn't nearly as good as having Cas on top of him, providing him with the friction his aching cock so desperately needed. That need stopped his forward progression toward the bedroom long enough for him to press Cas against the wall and grind their erections together again. Cas tightened his legs around Dean's back and keened, baring his throat as his head hit the wall behind him. “Dean,” he pleaded, his voice desperate, and the sound of Dean's name in Cas' mouth, so needy, almost made Dean come right then and there.

“Shh,” he whispered, his breath skittering across Cas' throat as he kissed at a spot just below Cas' ear. “I got you.” He thrust his hips against Cas' a few more times, and they both moaned at the feeling of their cocks pressing against each other, but then it was too much and Dean spun around and walked the few feet over to the bed on the floor in the other room, where he sank to his knees and pressed Cas down into the mattress.

Cas unwound his legs from Dean's waist and reached down to the bottom of Dean's t-shirt, lifting it up his back. Dean sat up and pulled it the rest of the way off, throwing it into the corner. The way Cas' eyes turned dark when he looked at Dean's naked torso made Dean flush, and he saw Cas smirk a little at that. Then Cas was lunging up, all his weight on one elbow as took Dean's left nipple between the fingers of one hand and his right between his teeth.

“Ah, Jesus, fuck!” Dean gasped out, and he could feel Cas smile against his chest. Then Cas took his hand off of Dean's left nipple and moved his mouth over to that one, but instead of his hand replacing his mouth it moved down Dean's stomach and slipped inside the waistband of his sleep pants, where, holy mother of fuck, his fingers rubbed across the slit at the top of his cock, gathering the precome and smearing it around. Dean felt his eyes roll back in his head for a second, and when he looked back down Cas was sucking his wet fingers into his mouth, looking completely debauched. Then his eyes opened again and met Dean's and Dean had to fight not to come right then and there.

“Pants, off, now,” he said, and with one hand reached down and yanked open Cas' jeans, thanking all the gods above for button flys. Cas reached down and pushed at the waistband as Dean grabbed the sides, and between the two of them they got them off and on the floor, together with Cas' boxer briefs. Dean knew that he should undo the buttons of Cas' shirt—wanted to slowly undo each button, kissing Cas between each one—but the sight of Cas' cock, hard and weeping beneath him, was too much, and with a groan he took it in his mouth, swallowing it down to the root in one go.

Cas practically jack-knifed underneath him, and if he hadn't had his hands on Cas' hips to steady him he probably would have gagged, but as it was he managed to mostly hold Cas down, growling around Cas' cock in reprimand.

“S-sorry, sorry,” Cas gasped, running his fingers through Dean's hair in apology. “I just—” Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the groan that he made when Dean took Cas even deeper in his throat and hummed around the head of his cock. Dean pulled off with a wet pop, and grinned up at Cas.

“You just what?” he asked

Cas glared down at him. “I just want to come with your cock inside of me,” he growled, and it was Dean's turn to lose it. “Shit,” he whispered, and reached down to wrap his hand around the base of his own cock and squeeze, because he was damned if he was going to come in his pants just from the sound of Cas' voice.

Cas took the opportunity to reach up and start undoing the buttons on his shirt, his eyes never leaving Dean's as he slowly undid them one after another. When he was done Dean took a moment to admire the body underneath him; although Cas wasn't obviously muscled, Dean knew very well from their experience in the alley how lithe and strong he was. He licked his way up Cas' stomach, stopping to flick his tongue inside Cas' belly button and smiling at the small squirm that produced, dragging his lips across the individual speed bumps of Cas' ribs until he got to Cas' nipple, which he covered in so much saliva that it glistened when he was through, hard and pebbled beneath his warm breath.

Cas reached down and slid his fingers along Dean's jaw, gently but firmly pulling him up, until Cas could lick his way back into Dean's mouth and sigh out, “Now, Dean.”

Dean grinned again, and pressing a soft kiss to the side of Cas' mouth whispered, “Lube?”

Cas reached over with his right hand, and reaching beneath the mattress pulled out a half empty bottle of lube. Dean felt an irrational surge of jealousy at whoever got the benefit of the rest of the bottle, but his jealousy was quickly assuaged when he asked , “Condom?” and Cas shook his head.

“I usually do this alone,” he said.

Dean groaned at the image that put in his head: Cas, naked and hard, splayed out on his bed and fucking up into his lube-slicked hand, and rolled off of the bed, standing up quickly to grab his pants from where he had left them before. He pulled out his wallet and grabbed the trusty condom he always kept at the ready and made his way back to the bed, shucking his pajama pants as he went. He paused at the sight of Cas' raised eyebrow. “You have a condom but no lube?”  
Dean shrugged. “My partners don't usually need it.” The words I usually fuck women went unsaid.

Cas frowned. “But you have done this before, right?”

Dean chuckled. “I'm kind of insulted that you could ask that after I've had your cock in my mouth.” Cas flushed, and Dean sat back down on the bed, pushing Cas' shirt off of his shoulder before biting down on Cas' bicep. “Yeah, I've done this before. Now roll over.” He stripped Cas' shirt off the rest of the way, and watched as Cas got on his hands and knees for him. Reaching up he took the lube from where it was still in Cas' hand, and kissed his way down Cas' spine. “Don't worry, I'm not going to have some big gay panic in the morning.”

“That's good,” Cas said, his voice like gravel, “because that would seriously interfere with my plans to fuck you again tomorrow.”

Dean had to reach down and grab the base of his cock again and squeeze. He bit back a groan and saw Cas smirk at the sound. How the man managed to look dominant from his submissive pose was a mystery Dean told himself he could explore later: for now he got his revenge by sliding one lube slicked finger quickly up inside Cas' hole.

He was surprised to hear Cas' quick hiss of pain, and pulled his finger back out in apology. “Don't stop,” Cas gritted out, his head hanging between his shoulders, but Dean didn't want to push any faster than Cas was able to take. Although clearly Cas' head was on board with what was happening, the rest of his body still had to catch up. And Dean was more than happy to play catch up with the beautiful body that was so willingly spread out before him.

He moved his hands down Cas' ass and spread his cheeks so he could see the tight pucker of Cas' hole, and before Cas could say anything else dipped his head down and ran his tongue along the rim. He felt Cas' sharp inhale, and Dean whispered, his lips skimming across Cas' opening, “Relax, Cas,” before he darted his tongue out again, this time spearing it inside.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Cas whined into the mattress, his forehead now resting on the hands that were clenched in the sheets, “Oh God, yes, Dean, oh please, yes.”

The encouragement was all Dean needed, and without pausing he was soon licking his way inside of Cas, running his tongue around the rim a few times before putting it inside as far as it would go, the low keening sounds he heard Cas making only serving to spur him on. In truth he had never done this before—had never even really considered it—but he would do just about anything as long as it meant he got to hear Cas making those pornographic sounds in front of him.

When he felt Cas open up a little under his tongue he took a chance and slipped his finger back inside, grinning to himself when instead of the pained hiss he had heard before he was instead greeted with a moan and Cas pushing back onto his hand. He twisted his finger around inside Cas, groaning himself at how incredibly tight and hot the other man felt. Cas was panting on the bed now, his eyes closed and his cheek laying on his hands, and Dean was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to tenderly kiss each eyelid. Leaving his finger where it was he leaned forward and did just that, continuing to softly stroke inside Cas the whole time.

Dean moved his lips to the shell of Cas' ear and whispered, “So fucking beautiful,” his lips dragging across the ridges before he moved back.

“Dean,” Cas breathed out, and when Dean felt him relax around his finger he withdrew it slowly and added more lube before slowly pushing two fingers back in. Cas pushed back onto his hand, rocking his hips slowly back and forth, a blissed out expression his face. Dean let him control the motion for a few thrusts, and then he carefully curled his fingers down and brushed them across the small hard bump of Cas' prostrate.

It was like he flipped a switch. Suddenly the purring man in front of him was replaced with a wild thing as Cas curved his spine and threw his head back, the shout that came out of his mouth incredibly loud compared to the groans and sighs of a few seconds earlier.

“Oh god, oh god,” he moaned, pushing back so hard on Dean's hand that Dean had to put the other hand on Cas' flank just to keep from being pushed off of the bed entirely. Dean took the opportunity to start scissoring his fingers inside Cas, making sure to brush his fingertips across Cas' prostate on every third pass. The sounds Cas were making now were so filthy that Dean found himself wondering if he could come just from listening to them. He reached down and gave his cock a painful squeeze at the thought of that, and realized that as much as he was enjoying watching Cas fall apart beneath his fingers, he really really wanted to see him come undone with Dean's cock buried inside him.

That, and that thought alone was the only thing that got him to pull his fingers out, lube them up again, and then plunge three in this time.

Cas had growled in frustration when he had pulled them out, and when they were back in he pushed against Dean's hand in a few short hard thrusts before he turned and glared at Dean over his shoulder. “Enough,” he ground out, “are you going to fuck me or not?”

Dean didn't have to be asked (well, ordered, actually) twice. With one hand (the other still being busy in Cas' ass) he lifted the foil packet to his mouth and tore it open, quickly sliding the condom down over his aching cock. Cas watched all of this from over his shoulder, and Dean could just catch a glimpse of vibrant blue around the black of his lust blown pupils. Dean frowned: he wanted to see more than a glimpse: he wanted to see every flare and spark in Cas' eyes as he came. He pulled his fingers out and bent down and bit Cas on his left ass cheek hard enough for Cas to buck up in surprise. “So bossy,” he said with a growl. “Turn over.”

Cas looked confused for a moment, but then he flipped so that he was on his back. Dean reached up and grabbed a pillow and Cas obligingly lifted his hips for Dean to slide it underneath him. Dean grabbed one of Cas' ankles in each hand and lifted them up to his shoulders before he grabbed his cock and lined it up with Cas' hole. He leaned forward then, his free hand resting on the bed by Cas' ribs. “Ready?” he asked, looking Cas in the eyes.

“Yes,” Cas said, trying as best he could in his position to push himself onto Dean's dick. Dean grinned at that and pushed forward, the head of his cock breaching Cas' hole. He felt Cas tense up beneath him, a grimace on his face, and made himself wait until he felt Cas open up. When he saw the tension ease from Cas' face he slowly pushed in another inch, and then another, until finally he bottomed out, his chest slick and sweating against Cas'. He stayed that way for a few seconds, the feel of Cas' heart beating against his own filling him with such tenderness that he placed a soft kiss against Cas' lips and and whispered, “Cas” into his skin. Cas whimpered at that, the sound so desperate that Dean couldn't wait another moment and began to move.

“Ahhh...” Cas moaned beneath him, and Dean felt him pull his legs down and wrap them around Dean's waist, using his legs to pull Dean even deeper inside him.

“Oh, fuck, Cas, shit, you're so fucking tight,” Dean had his head turned to the side, and he was trying to think about baseball, about wrinkly old ladies, Dick Cheney—anything to keep from blowing his load right then and there. Cas wasn't having any of it, though, and he reached up and grabbed Dean's face between his hands and pulled Dean down for a brutal kiss, biting and sucking at Dean's lips until Dean tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to reach between them to grab Cas' cock and jack him off but Cas chose that moment to growl, “Harder,” against his lips and Dean needed both hands to give himself the leverage he needed to pull back and slam into Cas hard enough to shove him up the mattress. Two more thrusts like that and Cas was in danger of getting brained on the wall, until he reached up and braced his hands behind him, pushing back at Dean's forceful thrusts with thrusts of his own.

Dean looked down at the way the angle made the muscles in Cas' arm stand out, at the way Cas was clenching his jaw in concentration, the stubble so dark, so very male, and he knew he couldn't hold on for much longer. “Shit, Cas, I'm gonna, I can't,” Dean gasped out.

Cas looked up into his eyes then, and that was it: just the look on Cas' face, the way he was totally and completely wrecked, so open beneath Dean. Dean dropped down and pushed his hands underneath Cas' shoulders, burying his face in the curve of Cas' shoulder and neck and saying, “Come for me baby. Come for me now,” before he bit down with a moan and came so hard all he could see was white for a moment. And then Cas was biting his neck and and groaning and Dean felt the wet proof of Cas' own orgasm on his chest and smiled.

Dean lay panting on the other man for a few seconds before he carefully pulled his softening dick out of Cas' ass. He felt rather than heard Cas mumble in protest beneath him, and when Dean pushed himself up he saw that Cas lay with his eyes closed and a look of utter contentment on his face. Dean smirked a little smugly at how well-fucked the man looked underneath him, at least until he tried to stand up and walk to the bathroom and found that his legs felt like overcooked noodles and he realized that he probably looked—and felt—just as very well fucked.

He made his way to the bathroom where with a grimace he pulled off the condom, tied it and dropped it into the trash before he got a wash cloth, ran some warm water over it and used it to clean himself off. He then rinsed it and took it back out to the bedroom, where he found Cas watching him intently. He knelt down and carefully cleaned Cas off, slightly unnerved by the way Cas watched him while he did it. It was almost like Cas was surprised. Dean tossed the washcloth back in the general direction of the bathroom and bent down to place a soft kiss on Cas' lips. He was shocked by the urge he felt to run his nose along the stubble on Cas' jaw, and by the urge to pull Cas into a tangle of limbs underneath the covers so that Dean could skim his fingers up and down Cas' spine while he pressed soft kisses into Cas' hair. Dean Winchester did not cuddle.

But then again, it wasn't like Cas knew that. Fuck it, Dean thought, and then he did all of those things he had just been contemplating. He was rewarded by the soft sigh of contentment that escaped from between Cas' lips, and the last thing he thought as he drifted off to sleep with the feel of the smaller man curled up against his chest was that he could definitely get used to this.


	6. "In My Secret Life"

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“In My Secret Life”

 

Cas lay awake for a long time after Dean went to sleep and tried not to list all of the firsts he had just experienced. First time he had been the one to initiate sex: check. First time he had had someone's tongue inside of his ass: check. (His dick twitched at the thought of that, and he had to stifle a small moan at the memory.) First time he had ever orgasmed just from the feel of someone inside of him: check. First time, actually, that he had been able to think of anything beyond the discomfort and outright  _pain_ of what was happening to even get fully hard during the act itself: check, check,  _check_ . 

He wasn't stupid: he knew that the sex he had had with Patrick had not been very good, both of them ignorant and scared, but he hadn't realized until this moment just how absolutely  _incredible_ it could have been. It made him sad to think about what they had missed out on, what they would never be able to have now. For the first time in a long time he thought about Patrick with something other than hurt and anger. 

He remembered the way Patrick had his own secret stash of cassette tapes back in his room, and how he and Cas had sat too close together on Patrick's bed, each with a headphone in one ear, listening to The Cure and Joy Division and The Smiths, Patrick trying to explain to Cas how great they were and how Cas should really think about learning to play the guitar, because his voice was  _perfect_ for guitar, and yeah, piano was great, too, but it wasn't like he would be able to carry a piano around from diocese to diocese.

“I can if you help me,” Cas had teased, smiling because the thought of he and Patrick—all skinny arms and under-developed legs—trying to move a piano was ridiculous in the extreme. Patrick hadn't smiled back, however, and instead had just looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. If Cas had been older, and less naïve, that probably would have been his first clue. Thinking back on it now Cas frowned, and it was like Dean could feel the shape of his mouth on his chest, because he sighed in his sleep and pulled Cas closer as he said, “S'alright, Cas, I got you.”

Cas felt his heart stutter deep in his chest, and reminded himself forcefully that he had known this man for less than twelve hours, and that incredible sex definitely did  _not_ equal romantic attachment. (Although, how would he know? This was the best sex he had ever had in his life.) And, what's more, he reminded himself that he had a duty to protect Amelia and Claire, and he could not fulfill that duty if he did anything that got him tangled up with his family again. And this thing that Dean was working on definitely involved his family. 

Even if he hadn't already been convinced of that by the symbol he had seen carved into that poor girl's back, the men he had saved Dean from the night before would have been convincing enough. They worked for the Milton family, without a doubt. Cas wondered how long it would take Dean to pick that up on his own—he had been impressed by how quickly Dean had figured out they were all Catholic, and knew that after that it probably wouldn't take him too long to find their connection to the Milton family. And from there, how long would it take him to find Cas' connection?

Cas debated the idea of just telling Dean—telling Dean everything he knew—but he had a feeling that Dean would draw the line at associating with someone from the same family he was investigating. And then, of course, there would be the inevitable change in the way Dean regarded Cas, the change that came over anyone when they found out Cas came from one of the most powerful families on the West Coast. He had seen it happen during his first tour in Afghanistan, after one of Michael's political cronies had arrived on some fact finding mission and recognized him. He remembered the way the man had deferred to him, and he remembered how that had changed the way the entire squad had treated Cas.

Before that he had been subjected to the same harassment and abuse as every other FNG— _Fucking New Guy—_ but afterwards he was seen as something different, and the friendships he had begun to form were cut short, turned into something stiff and artificial. It wasn't until his second tour, with a different squad, that he finally found the acceptance and comradeship he had been looking for. That had also been the tour where he had met Jimmy.

Cas resisted the urge to snort at himself in disbelief. Really? Was he really going to go over every single one of his love interests (both of them, part of his brain reminded himself tartly) while he was laying in Dean's arms?  _You need to learn how to live in the moment_ he heard Balthazar's voice saying to him, and, for once, he didn't tell it to shut up. Instead he nestled closer into Dean's side, inhaled the deep, masculine scent of him, and allowed himself to fall asleep.

He woke up to the feeling of Dean's erection pressed into his back, and before he was even fully awake he had slipped down, licking and swirling his tongue down Dean's shaft as his hand took care of what wouldn't fit in his mouth. When he felt Dean's hands in his hair and heard Dean gasp out, “ _Jesus, Cas_ ,” he swallowed his cock down whole and reached down between his own legs to stroke his own erection. The moans he made as he came in his hand clearly drove Dean crazy, and it was only a few minutes before Dean was shouting and coming down his throat, his hands holding Cas in place as he pulsed out drop after drop. When Cas pulled off of him and looked up he found Dean's beautiful green eyes staring back at him in delight, and Dean smiled and said, “That's the best wake up I've gotten in, like,  _ever_ ,” and Cas couldn't help but smile proudly.

“Smug bastard,” Dean said, but pulled Cas up into his arms and kissed him softly to take the sting off of the words, and  _fuck_ , but Cas knew he was gone. After a few minutes Dean sighed and reached over Cas to pick up his watch from the floor beside the bed. Cas didn't remember him taking it off, but it made him glad to know that Dean had wanted to be fully nude with him. “Shit,” Dean said. “It's eleven o'clock. I never sleep this late.” Cas never did, either, and he sat up with a frown. “Do you mind if I shower first?” Dean asked. “I really need to be working. I'd say we could shower together, but,” and here he gave Cas a positively pornographic leer, “I don't think that would actually save any time at all.” 

Cas blushed and looked down, and Dean laughed. Cas looked back up and Dean's eyes were actually  _sparkling._ “Damn, you are fucking  _irresistible_ ,” he said as he leaned forward and caught Cas' chin with his fingers and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He pulled away with a sigh and got up. When Cas heard the water start he got up himself, pulled on a pair of pants and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. He unplugged his phone from where it had been charging, and was startled to see that he had seven missed calls.

They were all from a blocked number. While he was frowning at his phone it rang yet again, buzzing in its silent mode, and he answered it with trepidation.

“Hello,” he said, thankful that his voice betrayed none of what he was feeling.

A calm female voice said, “Please hold,” and Cas' feeling of dread was replaced with confusion. Was this about some bill he hadn't paid? And then there was a click, and the very  _breath_ on the other end of the line sent Cas sliding down the counter to land with a thud on his ass, which he realized was a mistake as soon as he had gasped out loud in surprised pain. Oh yeah. Suddenly he remembered what his ass been up to last night, and instead of feeling guilty, or ashamed, he felt wickedly defiant.

“Hello, Michael.”

“Castiel. Everything alright there?” If Michael was surprised that Cas recognized him from his  _breathing_ after nearly a twelve year absence, he didn't let on.

“Fine. I just stubbed my toe,” Cas said, using one hand to pull himself back to his feet. “Why are you calling me?” The “How did you find me” part went unsaid.

“I hear you've been keeping some rather unsavory company lately.” Michael's tone was light, but Cas could hear the iron behind it. In the background he heard the faint scratch of a pen, and thought that Michael probably wasn't even giving his full attention to calling to threaten him.

“Oh? I wasn't aware that the company I kept was any of your business any longer.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and when Michael spoke Cas had the feeling he now had his full attention. “There's a man who has been asking some rather insulting questions about our family. Implying that old business has not been done and settled with. And last night you were seen with him. You were seen  _helping_ him.”

“Are you talking about when I saved him from being killed by your goons?”

“The only people that were killed in that alley last night were, as you put it, my  _goons_ . I could have him arrested right this very moment.”

“Except for the fact that he wasn't the one to kill them; I was.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Of course you are.”

There was silence on the other end of the line again, and this time it was Cas who broke it. “Why was Lucifer's mark carved into that girl's back?”

“I have no idea. This case has nothing to do with Lucifer. Lucifer has been locked up in a home for the criminally insane for decades.”

“Well, then, someone else is using his playbook.” Cas had no idea where his bravado was coming from, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the delicious burn he felt as he leaned against the counter.

“That's none of your concern.”

Cas stood up a little straighter. There was an edge to Michael's voice that he remembered from years ago. The edge he only got when was lying. “I think I'll decide what is and isn't my concern,” he said, once again his voice sounding much calmer than he was feeling.

There was a sigh from the other end of the line, and when Michael spoke his voice sounded different. Tired. “Castiel. This has nothing to do with our family.”

“The fact that you put a hit on the man investigating it makes me doubt that.”

Michael made an impatient sound. “I didn't put 'a hit' on anyone. I merely sent my men to talk to some impertinent gumshoe who was stirring up old trouble, and  _he_ attacked  _them_ . I'll admit they took it too far at that point, but from what I hear the man is incredibly provoking. He has a very disrespectful tongue.”

Cas had to throw his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound he made at that. It was on the tip of his tongue to say  _you have no idea_ , but he pulled himself together just in time. Michael, despite his new conciliatory tone, was still an incredibly dangerous and powerful man. Cas was struck with an idea. “Michael, I don't want our family name dragged through the mud any more than you do. Why else do you think I'm helping Dean?”

There was a pause, then, “Explain yourself.”

Cas took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Clearly this is some sort of copycat killing. Someone is trying, as you said, to 'imply that old family business is not settled and done with.' I'm merely trying to steer Dean towards that conclusion. The quicker he finds who is  _really_ behind this, the quicker the family name is out of it.”

“And how did you become involved in this in the first place?” Michael sounded skeptical, but not entirely disbelieving. Cas tried to put all of his sincerity into his next words, which wasn't hard, because they were actually true.

“The whole thing fell into my lap. Really, he approached me just to ask some questions. He has no idea who I am.”

“You haven't told him?”

Cas bit down on the urge to sigh. Michael would never understand  _not_ exploiting the family name. “No. He has no idea.” The words tasted like ashes in his mouth. He was well aware that he was offering to be Michael's spy.

“And he trusts you now, obviously, after last night...” Michael was clearly speaking more to himself than Cas.

“Obviously.” Cas thought that there was actually a little something stronger than just trust going on between the two of them. But Michael didn't need to know that.

“Very well. I can see the advantage of having someone on the inside keep an eye on this man. I'll tell my men to back off—for now. I will expect daily reports, of course.”

Cas felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and was flooded with the urge to throw the phone down and run screaming away from it. Instead he took a calming breath and said, “I will call you when I have something to say. That is, if you give me a number. This one is blocked.”

Michael chuckled. “This is my private line.” The words hung between them, and when Cas didn't answer Michael sighed and said, “I will have my secretary text you the number.” Cas rolled his eyes at that. Of course Michael wouldn't be caught doing something as plebeian as sending his own texts.

“Fine.” Cas heard the shower stop. “I have to go now.”

There was another cold burst of silence from the other end of the line, and Cas again felt that feeling of dread. “Just remember where your loyalty lies, Castiel.”

“I will Michael. I swear.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Goodbye, Michael.” He hung up and put the phone back on the counter just as he heard Dean's footsteps coming out of the bedroom. He didn't turn around as he felt Dean slide his arms around him from the back and press his lips to Cas' neck. Cas tilted his head to give Dean better access to his throat, and shivered at the feel of Dean's freshly shaven face on his skin. It made him realize that he still hadn't so much as brushed his teeth yet. He turned his mouth away and said, “The coffee should be ready in a minute.”

Dean groaned into his shoulder in delight. “Coffee  _and_ a blowjob? You're perfect, Cas.”

Cas pulled out of Dean's arms, and Dean let him go with ease. “Maybe you should taste the coffee, first.”

“Maybe,” Dean grinned back a him. “I tried to leave you some hot water.”

“Thanks.” Cas looked at his feet, and then up at Dean, who was leaning against the counter, patiently waiting for him to speak. His eyes gazed at Cas with affection, and Cas held his gaze as he tried to think how best to say what he wanted to say.

Finally, after what was probably a full minute, Dean spoke lightly. “What is it, Cas?” he asked with a smile.

Cas sighed and spoke in a rush. “I've changed my mind.” Dean frowned, and Cas realized how that must sound, the morning after and all. He went on quickly. “I mean I've changed my mind about helping you with this case. I want to do it.”

Dean's face cleared up, but then became troubled again. “It might be dangerous.”

Cas raised one eyebrow. “You think?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, I can't deny that you're a good guy to have on your side in a fight. But I don't know that I have the right to get you involved.”

Cas tilted his head to one side, trying to figure Dean out. “Why not? You were all set to get me involved before. What changed?”

Dean squirmed uncomfortably. “Now I care what happens to you.”

Cas felt a warmth that started at the top of his head and rushed all the way down to his toes. “Good. Because I care what happens to you, too. And it's easier for me to make sure nothing bad happens to you when I can actually see you.”

Dean smirked. “Are you volunteering for the job of guardian angel?”

“I think I'm a little too big to perch on your shoulder.”

Dean shot him a look that was smoldering. “You'd be surprised at the positions I know.”

Cas laughed out loud at that, and noticed that Dean looked inordinately proud of having made him do it. “Maybe later,” he said. He grabbed a key off of a hook next to his refrigerator. “Here's a spare key. You can bring the rest of your stuff up while I'm take a shower.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean whistled lightly to himself as he went down to the Impala to grab the information on the case, as well as his spare duffel of weapons. He figured it would be safer to leave them in Cas' apartment then in the trunk, even hidden as they were. Besides, with Cas' background it wasn't like the sight of a few guns was going to scare him.

Dean found himself wondering what, exactly, it was that  _would_ scare Cas. Because he had been plenty spooked when he had bailed out of the car yesterday. Not that you would have known it later the way he had taken out the two guys in the alley. Dean felt himself harden slightly at the memory, and while he knew that there was probably something wrong about getting turned on at the thought of Cas killing someone, he couldn't help it. It was  _hot_ that Cas could take care of himself—hell, could take care of Dean, if necessary. It was hot, and exciting, and new, and different, and— _fuck_ . He was so gone.

As Dean stepped back into the apartment (no longer whistling, because five floors, no elevator, what the fuck?) part of his brain tried to ask him  _what it all means_ . What he and Cas were doing, what was going to happen when this case was over, what was even going to happen tonight, but Dean told that part of his brain to shut up, and it did. It always did. And the part of his brain that never stopped thinking about  _the job_ spoke up instead, and said that the big patch of open wall in Cas' living room would be a good place to pin up his case notes. With Cas' permission, of course.

When Cas came out of the bedroom, smelling of soap and toothpaste and  _Cas_ , Dean asked him about using the wall, after pushing him up against said wall and kissing him until they were both half hard and moaning. When Cas gasped out, “Bedroom,” Dean thought he was suggesting round two (Three? Four?), until Cas clarified that he would rather Dean pin everything up in the bedroom. “I have someone coming over this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Dean hated the way his voice sounded small and lost all of a sudden.

Cas obviously didn't, though, because he pressed a small, comforting kiss into the corner of Dean's mouth and said, “It's Thursday. I'm teaching a piano lesson.”

Dean repeated the kiss on Cas with a smile, and then moved his lips down Cas' throat and murmured, “Aren't you missing something?” before he sucked a small bruise into his collarbone.

“What?” Cas asked, his voice low and dreamy as his hands carded their way through Dean's hair. Dean smiled at the effect he was having on the other man.

“Detective, remember? How are you going to teach a piano lesson if you don't have a piano?”

Cas was pliant in his arms for another split second, and then he stiffened (and not in a good way) before he knocked his head against the wall behind him and said, “Shit.”

Dean pulled back and looked at him with a laugh. “You honestly forgot you didn't have a piano?”

Cas frowned at him, and it was so adorable that it was all Dean could do not to nip at the pink, slightly chapped bottom lip that was pushed out so enticingly.  _Christ, man, get a grip_ his balls growled at him.  _We'll be right here if you ever need us again._ “I  _have_ a piano,” Cas said. It's downstairs in my old apartment. I was supposed to arrange for it to be moved yesterday. But I was distracted.” Here he shot Dean an accusing look. Dean smirked, and then frowned as the realization sunk in.

“I'm helping you move a piano today, aren't I?”

Cas looked away. “Of course not. I could never ask such a thing.”

Dean dropped his forehead onto Cas' shoulder and groaned. “Even worse, I'm being made to  _beg_ to help you move a piano today.” When Cas went to speak again Dean interrupted him. “Enough. I'm helping, and that's that. Although if you can give me a few hours that would be great: I need to follow up on that lead you gave me yesterday about the Angel Murders. What made you tell me that, anyway?”

Cas looked uncomfortable for a minute, and Dean felt himself go still. Was there something Cas wasn't telling him? But then Cas sighed and said, “Fine. I'll tell the landlady we need to get in my old place at three o'clock,” and Dean realized with relief that Cas was just uncomfortable about accepting his help with the move. “And,” he added, “I grew up here. Everyone knew about the Angel Murders.”

Dean nodded. “Always nice to have the local's touch. And three o'clock it is.” He stepped away from Cas then, and quickly drank the rest of his quickly cooling coffee before checking his pockets to make sure he had his phone, wallet, and keys—including the spare one Cas had lent him. He pressed a quick kiss to Cas' lips in goodbye, and was halfway out the door before he turned and said over his shoulder, “By the way, I've tasted the coffee now, and I think I have to stick with my earlier assessment.” He saw the thoughtful look on Cas' face as the door closed behind him, and wondered if Cas would work it out that he had just called him perfect—again.

Dean wasn't sure whether or not he really wanted him to.

He pulled out his phone on the way down the stairs. “Sammy,” he said when his brother picked up, “What have you got for me?”

Sam sighed. “I've got a mess.”

Dean opened the door to the street, holding it for an extra second to smile and wink at a not-unattractive woman in her mid-thirties coming in from outside, and then said, “What's up?”

“Well, the archives down here are like something out of 'Raiders of the Lost Ark.' If there is some way this place is organized, it's beyond me. I've a couple of interns searching the place now, but so far the only thing I've found on the Angel Murders has been what I've been able to pull up online. I'm down to Wiki—fucking—pedia here.”

“You've got interns? That's hot.”

Sam wasn't thrown at all by the nonsequiter, and Dean felt a brief glow in his chest that they could still understand each other so well. The glow got even bigger when Sam said, “Down boy. We're a long way from the Clinton administration.”

Dean chuckled, and said, “Maybe  _you_ are. Anyway, did you find anything that mentioned those unusual patterns that were carved into that girl's back?”

“No, not yet, but that's a pretty gruesome detail. Stuff like that would be liable to get flagged and taken down pretty quickly online. Tell me again what makes you think there might be a connection here?”

Dean unlocked and then climbed into his baby, noticing as he did that someone had parked so closely behind him that their bumpers were touching. Fucking cities. “It's that local I told you about. We're kind of working together.” He carefully bumped the car behind him and slid out of the spot, one hand on the wheel and the other one turning his phone to speaker and putting it on the dash.

“Dean, since when have you worked with  _anyone_ ?” Dean could almost hear Sam rolling his eyes over the phone.

“Since now, okay? A little local help could make all of the difference on this case.”

“ _I'm_ local,” Sam pointed out.

“Okay then, a little  _more_ local help.”

There was silence, and Dean almost reached up to make sure the phone hadn't gone off speaker. Then Sam asked him, “So, is she hot?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

There was more silence, and then Dean said, “Call me if you get something,” and Sam said something back in assent, and the conversation was over. But for the first time in years Dean didn't feel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard the dial tone after one of Sammy's calls. For the first time he felt something more like hope.

Dean spent the next few hours trying to figure out how each of the missing girls spent the last few hours of their lives. By talking to what felt like nearly every street kid in Oakland, as well as the bartenders for every bar that was open (a surprising number, really, given that it was just past noon—Dean felt his respect for Oakland increase slightly) Dean figured out that all of the girls liked a good party, which he probably could have guessed just from looking at their pictures. Only one of the bartenders he spoke to really knew anything about any of the girls besides the fact that they had seen them before, though, and that was the guy at a place called Pearl. Guy named Benny. Benny had pointed to one of the girl's pictures and said, “Oh, yeah, her. I used to have to throw her out at least once a week.”

“Why?” Dean had asked. “Was she a sloppy drunk?”

Benny had rolled his eyes. “They're  _all_ sloppy drunks. Nah, she kept trying to climb on stage. Had a real thing for musicians.”

Dean almost muttered, “I know the feeling,” but held back, instead asking, “Did she seem interested in any band in particular?”

Benny thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, now that you mention it, she did seem to have more of a thing for the darker ones. Which made it that much more annoying, because the place is  _packed_ on those nights. The singer/songwriter crowd tends to tip more, but in terms of sheer volume you can't go wrong with a good emo band.”

Dean resisted the urge to ask what exactly an “emo” band was. He figured Cas would know. “Thanks,” he said. “Oh, and when is the next time you guys are having an 'emo' band in here”?

Benny picked up a piece of paper from behind the bar and ran his finger down it. “Let's see...Dante Loves Beatrice is playing this Friday. They do a lot of MCR covers, so that's probably close enough to emo for anybody's taste. I know we'll have to put extra bouncers at the door, just to enter in all the ID's.”

“Enter in?”

Benny smirked. “Yeah, enter in. I know that guys like you and me haven't been carded since we were thirteen, but nowadays if we get any suspicion at all about an ID we record both the ID and the person using it on camera. And then we save it, so if that person ends up swallowing their own tongue later on from alcohol poisoning we can prove to the State Liquor Board we took all the steps to prevent anyone underage from drinking here.”

Dean looked around at the size of the bar: it was mostly nothing but dance area, and could probably hold five hundred people. He whistled . “How long do have to save it? I mean, that's a lot of data.”

Benny shrugged. “I dunno, for all I know they got hard drives stacked to the ceiling back in the manager's office, right next to all of my Christmas bonuses and Employee of the Month certificates.”

Dean smiled. In another life he always thought that he would have enjoyed being a bartender. Almost unfailingly they were the most helpful, most  _interesting_ people he had to interview for his job. So it was with no reluctance at all that he reached into his wallet now and pulled out a twenty—it was full of cash again, thanks to his attackers—and put it down on the bar. “Thanks for all the info. And Merry Christmas.”

Benny tilted the cap he was wearing in salute and picked up the cash. “And a happy New Year to you as well.”

Dean was still smiling as he walked out of the bar, happy to finally have  _some_ kind of a lead. He didn't know how much of one this one was, but he was eager to run this new information by Cas and see what he thought. It had been a long time since he had had anyone else to bounce ideas off of, and even though part of him warned caution at the idea of trusting a stranger so quickly, another part of him couldn't accept the thought of Cas as a stranger. Not really. Dean rubbed the back of his head. Jesus, the man had  _killed_ for him. (And come for him, too, Dean remembered, breath catching a little at the memory of Cas gasping and shaking in his arms. Next time he would have him from behind, Dean's chest pressed flush against Cas' back so that Dean could whisper and moan in Cas' ear the whole time.)

With that thought he ducked into a small grocery, intending to pick up more condoms and lube. Once inside however, Dean caught a glimpse of the old couple manning the one register, and paused. The two of them sat side by side on matching stools, and Dean was just about to make some snide comment in his head about “How many people does it take to man a register?” when he saw a young man set his basket down in front of them. The old lady started ringing up the items, and the man got off his stool to carefully bag them. The old lady seemed to be making a running commentary on everything the young guy was buying, handing each item to the man Dean supposed was her husband with a comment and a smile. It didn't seem to bother the younger man, though, he just laughed and played along, and when they got to the end of his basket, and the woman reached behind her to grab a single rose in a plastic sheath, Dean got the feeling she was throwing it in for free. That gave Dean an idea.

Although the grocery was small it was well-stocked, and the tiny produce section and meat counter were both filled with fresh, attractive product. Dean quickly gathered everything he needed to make spaghetti and meatballs. He also grabbed a loaf of bread for garlic bread, and, after hesitating a moment in front of the wine, a six pack of beer. His basket was pretty full by the time he made his way over to the checkout line, so when he saw the stack of pies he had to carry the cherry one he grabbed in his hand. He set them all down at the checkout gratefully.

The man moved from his spot on the stool to the end of the counter just as he did before, and the woman started ringing his purchases up. Dean wondered if she would make comments on all of his items, too, or if that was only something she did for her regular customers. He didn't have to wait for long. As she picked up the clove a garlic she smiled and said, “Not a first date, then?” before handing it to her husband, who snorted and put it into the bag.

Dean thought about that. How many dates did  _we drank, we kissed, we killed a couple guys_ equal? At least one. “No,” he said with a smile, “not the first date.”

The woman got to the condoms and lube, and Dean looked her straight in the eye: Dean Winchester did  _not_ get embarrassed about having responsible sex. Not even responsible hella gay sex. “Third date?” she asked, an approving twinkle in her eye.

“Let's call it the fourth,” Dean said, giving her a wink.

At that she threw back her head and laughed, and her husband chuckled softly to himself. And then she reached behind her and grabbed a rose, and Dean felt incredibly, overwhelmingly happy. And validated. He felt the same way he felt on those rare occasions when his dad said something like, “good job, son.” The woman handed the rose to her husband to bag and said to Dean, “For your young man. No charge.”

Dean smiled and thanked her, then paid and carried his bags out to the car. By the time he had driven back to Cas' and found a parking spot (it really hadn't been worth it to drive, if he lived here he would probably find some long term garage to park his baby at and walk most everywhere, and where the hell did  _that_ thought come from?) it was close to three, and so he grabbed the groceries and sprinted up the five flights of stairs.  _Fuck,_ he thought as he came panting up to Cas' door, no wonder Cas had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.

He switched both bags to one arm then and used his key to let himself in, thinking as the door swung open and he saw Cas sitting at the kitchen table that he probably should have knocked, probably should not have presumed that he was welcome to just waltz right in, or make dinner, or even—fuck,  _anything._ But then Cas looked up and saw him and the look on his face was such sincere  _delight_ , and he grinned so wide that his eyes almost disappeared, and Dean felt all of the doubts and insecurities that had been buzzing around his head like flies just fall away, and he found himself returning the very same smile.

He kicked the door shut behind him and made his way to Cas, who he could now see was counting money on the table and entering the amount into a little notebook. He set the groceries on the counter and pulled out the rose, which he set on the pile of bills and coins. “Here's another tip for you, although I'm not sure how you would go about accounting for that in your book.”

Cas reached out to stroke the rose through the plastic. “It would go into a separate column, under 'goods and services bartered in kind.' But I haven't done anything to merit a tip from you yet. I haven't sung you a single song today.”

“Don't worry: I was planning on making you sing later,” Dean said with a suggestive leer as he bent down, and Cas tilted his head up, and their lips fit together so perfectly that Dean just wanted to hold the kiss right there forever. There was no tongue, no soft biting of lips, just the perfect press of their lips together, chaste, like a promise. When Dean finally broke it he opened his eyes to look into Cas' and was surprised to find them completely  _wrecked_ . He looked like Dean had just kissed him senseless.

“Thank you,” Cas said, and his voice was wrecked too. “For the rose, I mean. And all this.” He gestured at the bags on the counter behind Dean. “What is all of this, anyway?”

Dean stood up and cleared his throat. He was just as affected by the kiss as Cas was. “Dinner. I mean, if that's alright.”

Cas smiled again, that same bright smile as before. “Of course it's alright.”

Dean looked at his watch. “Great. So, um, I hope you like spaghetti. We have about twenty minutes until three: I figured I could get the sauce going and then it would have all afternoon to simmer. It's better the longer it cooks.”

“That sounds fine. Let me put all this away and then go make sure Mrs. Grady is ready to let us in. I'll be right back.”

Dean groaned. “You're going to run down and then back up again? Dude, you are a serious masochist.”

“I haven't been able to run as much as I like to lately. This gives me a way to make up for that.”

Dean shook his head. “Like I said: masochist.”

And then he was left staring wistfully at the door Cas had just stepped out of, wondering how long it would be until the other man was back in the apartment again. He mentally slapped himself for being such a sap, and reminded himself that the more attached he got now, the more it would hurt when it all ended. Which it would. End, that is. It always did.

He grunted to himself and turned back to his groceries. Who was the masochist now?

 


	7. Love Calls You By Name

                                                                                                 “Love Calls You By Name”

Cas quickly ran down the stairs. He already knew that Mrs. Grady would be ready for them—she was the most organized and efficient landlady he had ever had—but he needed to get out of his apartment for a few moments. If he hadn't, if he had stayed, then he was sure that he would have slid up behind Dean as he made the spaghetti sauce, slipped his arms around his waist and pressed his cheek into the beautiful curve of Dean's shoulders. He was sure that that he would have run his lips up the column of Dean's neck until they found his ear, and then whispered softly, “Stay with me forever.”

  
Or worse yet, “I love you.”

  
Which was ridiculous, he knew: he had just met the man the day before. And yet, the two other times Cas had felt this way in his life he had known after the first day as well. Although there was something more to the feeling this time, something more desperate, and tender, and yearning and right.

  
That was it. Being with Dean felt so incredibly right.

  
He killed the time he was supposed to be knocking on Mrs. Grady's door by collecting his mail. It was all junk—and mostly junk that was addressed to Gabriel as well. Why Cas had ever let him use his address to have his “marital aids” shipped to Cas' apartment was still a mystery to Cas. This was one of the times when Cas didn't feel so lucky that when he changed apartments he hadn't had to change his address with the post office—his mailman just knew to put it in a different box. Looking at all the solicitations for “Triple XXX Guaranteed Pheromones” and “Miracle Penis Growth” he shook his head in amazement. How in the hell had he and Gabriel grown up in the same family?

  
Thinking of family made him think of Michael, and his morning phone call. It was sad beyond belief Michael was so protective of the family name that he would send his goons after someone just for getting close to stirring up old stories. Cas wondered if the fact that the DA was interfering in his own investigation was the reason these murders still weren't solved. If that was the case then the blood of some of these girls was on Michael's hands. Including Jo's.

  
Cas wondered what Dean would think if he knew that Cas was related to the man who was indirectly responsible for his friend's disappearance and probable death. He thought of the soft way Dean had looked at him earlier when he had handed him the rose, and imagined that soft look turning hard with disgust. It pained him to think of it, so much so that he stopped on the fourth floor and put his hand to his chest, as if he could feel that future heartbreak in his actual heart. He was still standing there, hand pressed to his chest and eyes staring blankly, when Dean stuck his head over the rail above him and said, “Hey Cas, your phone was ringing.” He frowned, apparently noticing the position Cas' hand was in, and then smirked. “Told you running was bad for you.”

  
Cas took his hand off of his chest and flipped Dean off, which seemed to amuse Dean to no end, because he absolutely guffawed and pulled his head back over the rail. Cas ran up the rest of the way and went back into the apartment, where he found Dean stirring a pot of sauce on the stove. Cas saw his phone sitting on the counter next to him, and was struck with the fear that Michael had called again and spoken to Dean.

  
“Did you answer it?” he asked, his mouth suddenly going dry.

  
Dean looked up at him and quirked one eyebrow. “Did you want me to? I'm your cook, not your secretary.”

  
Cas relaxed. “Clearly the next time I place an ad for a 'man of all work' I'll have to be more specific.”

  
“Clearly.”

  
Dean smiled down into his sauce, and Cas couldn't resist pressing a kiss into the back of his neck as he passed behind him to grab his phone. “Although I must say I'm quite pleased with the models the agency has sent over so far.”

  
Dean smiled again, and said, “Glad to hear it,” and Cas slipped his arm around Dean's waist with one hand while he looked at his phone with the other. He saw that the missed call was from Claire and returned it without taking his arm from around Dean's waist. He wondered idly if it would be practical to never take his hands from off of Dean again while he waited for Claire to answer. Probably not, unfortunately.

“Why didn't you answer your phone?” Claire's tone was shrewish, making her sound far older than she really was.

“Hello, Claire, how are you? I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

  
Cas wondered if it was possible to hear someone's eyes rolling, because if it was he was certain he could hear Claire's rolling right now. “See, this is why I text instead of calling; you don't have to go through all of that other bullshit.”

  
“I am very fond of the social niceties, or, 'all of that other bullshit,' as you so eloquently put it. It makes us human. Separates us from the lower orders.”  
“No, opposable thumbs separate us from the lower orders. Thumbs we then use for texting. And you didn't answer my question. Why didn't you answer your phone?”

  
“I was downstairs checking on your piano.”

  
Dean turned and spoke softly over his shoulder. “How do you feel about garlic?”

  
Cas held the phone away from his mouth and said, “Love it.” He made to move away from Dean, to give him room to work, but Dean grabbed his arm and held him in place with a soft mine and Cas instead spread open his palm and started rubbing small circles into Dean's stomach. Dean murmured something low under his breath in appreciation.

  
“Oh my god, are you having sex?” Claire's voice practically rang out from Cas' phone, and Dean snorted.

  
Cas stopped moving his hand. “I'm in the kitchen.”

  
“So, when you said you were 'downstairs,' did that mean—”

  
“Claire—”

  
“Because whoever that was that just spoke? That voice was like sex on a stick.”

  
Cas took his hand away from Dean and pressed it to his forehead. He really didn't know what to say to that; after all, she was right. Dean's voice was like sex on a stick. “Why did you call, Claire?”

  
“So much for the 'social niceties,' eh?” He rubbed his head again. He didn't regret for a second offering to help raise Claire; sometimes, however, he wished that the rest of his squad had volunteered as well. “Anyway,” Claire went on, obviously not expecting an answer to her last question, I called to see if you were going to keep your promise to teach me something a little less lame today.”

  
“Did you keep your promise?”

  
“Yep. I got zero detentions this week.”

  
“And how many times did you get sent to the principal's office?”

  
“What? That wasn't the deal.”

  
“Claire...”

  
Dean, turned around to look at him. “She's got a point: it doesn't matter how many times you get arrested—it's only the convictions that count.”

  
Claire could obviously hear Dean as well as he could hear her. “I like this guy. Do I get to meet him?”

  
“No.” Dean's face flashed disappointment for the barest second—if Cas hadn't been studying it so closely he would have never even noticed it—and then went back to his usual look of calm amusement. That flash had been enough though, and Cas coughed and said, “Maybe.” Dean grinned and turned back to the sauce, shaking a very generous amount of garlic salt into it. He stirred and then lifted the spoon up to his lips to taste. He sampled the sauce and then slowly, languidly, slid his tongue out to catch a drop that was still on his bottom lip. He closed his eyes in obvious bliss, and Cas felt like time ground to a halt. He heard an annoyed squawk in the distance and realized that Claire had been talking to him.

  
“I'm sorry, what?” Dean cut his eyes sideways and smirked at him, and Cas was filled with the urge to smite him.

  
“I said 'see you at five.' And remember: non-lameness.”

  
“I thought the agreement was less lameness?”

  
“Whatever. Uptight nerd.”

  
“Spoiled brat.”

  
“Bye, Cas.” Claire's voice sounded much younger than it had when she had first answered, and Cas smiled to himself. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the reason she made his life so difficult was because she loved him. Amelia had told him that in the first few months, and while it had taken him awhile to see the truth of it, he could no longer deny it. Our job is to love them in spite of themselves Jimmy had once told him after he had received a letter from Claire explaining exactly why he was the worst father ever and had simply tucked it away fondly.

  
Thinking of Jimmy made his voice rougher than usual when he said “Bye, Claire,” but if she heard she didn't let on. He shut his phone and waited for Dean to ask him what that was all about, and thought about exactly what he was going to tell him. So, yeah, one of the only guys I've ever been in love with? He's dead, and thats his daughter.

  
Dean didn't ask about Claire though, and while Cas should have felt grateful for that he found instead that he was a little disappointed: it was almost as if he had actually wanted to talk to Dean about Jimmy. He frowned to himself at that thought, and when Dean leaned forward and kissed the side of his mouth and said, “Everything set with the piano?” he just nodded in reply, turning and heading back downstairs. He could hear Dean following behind him, but if Dean thought his mood was off he didn't question him, for which Cas was definitely grateful.

  
He was contemplating whether or not he had time to push Dean up against the nearest wall and properly show him his gratitude when a door opened down the hall and he was met with the sight of Mrs. Grady glaring up at him. Mrs. Grady was four feet tall in her boots, and Cas was terrified of her and adored her in equal measures. She was the fiercest woman he had ever met: he had once seen her grab a violent junkie by the ear and drag him out of the foyer. True, once the guy realized what was happening he had turned on her, and would likely have killed her if Cas hadn't been there to intercede, but she had never shown any signs of backing down during the entire confrontation. She reminded Cas of some of the tribal women he had seen in Afghanistan, their haughty stares making him feel like he was dealing with the direct descendent of some Mongol warlord.

  
“You sounded like a herd of elephants coming down the stairs. How many people do you have with you, anyway?”

  
Cas winced and opened his mouth to apologize—Dean did tend to galumph down the stairs. Unfortunately, the elephant in question chose that moment to step forward and give Mrs. Grady a cheeky smile. “Just me, ma'am.” And then he winked.

  
Oh no. Mrs. Grady hated to be charmed. Cas started to say something conciliatory to smooth down her ruffled feathers when she surprised him by actually giggling and ducking her chin into her shoulder. When she looked back up at Dean she flashed him a smile, and Cas realized with a start that it was the first time he had ever seen her teeth. For all he had known she didn't have any. “Oh, you'll do,” she said, and then pushed past Cas to open the door to his old apartment, where an upright piano waited in a small entryway. “Well, there you go boys. Have fun. Lock the door behind you.”

  
“We will, Mrs. Grady. And thank you again for your help. I appreciate it.”

  
“Hmmph,” was all she said, back to her usual taciturn self. Until she glanced at Dean again, that was, and the same smile came back again, and dammit if she didn't make a sound that sounded like a choked off giggle. She walked back out and Cas couldn't help it: he glared at Dean.

  
“What?” Dean said.

  
“It took me a year for her stop snarling at me, and even then I had to save her life first.”

  
Dean smirked. “What can I say? I'm adorable.”

  
And as much as Cas wanted to argue with that he knew he couldn't. Oh God, he was so screwed. “Well, let's see how adorable you are holding up your end of a piano.”

  
Getting it to the stairs was easy—it was on wheels, after all. It was after that that it got tricky. After some negotiation over who took the front and who took the back it was finally agreed that they would switch off, by floors.

  
“Kinky,” Dean said, and gave Cas a lascivious wink, causing Cas to roll his eyes on the outside and giggle just as badly as Mrs. Grady had on the inside. Dean took the first turn with the back, and as he crouched down and lifted (Cas was happy to see he knew to lift with his legs) he let loose a string of curses that Cas was sure even the shadier denizens of Oakland had never heard before.

  
“Holy Jesus mother of fuck,” he finally finished with.

  
Cas gave him a hard stare and said, “How adorable;” Dean clamped his lips shut and glared right back at him. But when they got to the first floor and moved to switch places Cas smelled the sweat rolling off Dean and had to hold himself back from licking it off of him.

  
At the second floor Dean said, “Have you ever heard of a thing called a 'keyboard'?” and just rolled his eyes when Cas responded with, “The keys don't have the same weight.”

  
At the third floor Dean said, “You are so blowing me after this,” and Cas nearly dropped his end.

  
“Dean,” he rasped out, “it's hard enough doing this without an erection. Please,” and when they switched places Dean pushed him up against the wall and said “Or maybe I'm blowing you. That sounds good, too,” before he flicked his tongue out and caught a drop of sweat that was dangling off of the tip of Cas' nose. They both leaned against the wall after that and didn't speak for a moment, until Dean finally said, “Baseball here. What about you?”

  
Cas huffed out a laugh. “Sister Mary Constance. She had a mole the size, color and shape of a small mouse on her left cheek.”

  
“Jesus. You win.”

  
They didn't speak at all on the fourth floor, but the way Dean looked at Cas as they traded places was enough for Cas to have to imagine Sister Mary Constance naked. Finally they got the piano up to the fifth floor and rolled it into Cas' apartment, and Dean went to check on his sauce, looking at his watch as he did. “I just need to make the meatballs and then I'll get out of here while you teach your lesson.”

  
“Thank you.” Cas had just been about to ask him to do just that, and had been dithering on how best to put it without making it sound like he was kicking Dean out, even though he was. Of course Dean would be sensitive enough to figure it out on his own. He slipped behind Dean and pressed his lips to the back of Dean's neck. Dean smelled even more delicious than the sauce he was currently stirring, and that was saying something. Cas just wanted to press his nose into Dean's collar and huff the thick masculine scent of him. It was intoxicating. Before he realized what he was doing he had done just that, and Dean laughed.

  
“I smell pretty ripe right now, huh? Maybe I should shower first, and make the meatballs later.”

  
Cas sniffed him again. The only way Dean smelled ripe was in the sense of ripe and juicy. But he doubted other people would feel that way. Or worse yet, maybe they would. He didn't think he liked the idea of other people smelling Dean. God he thought. Maybe I should just piss on his leg right now and get it over with.

  
Dean turned in his arms and nuzzled his nose in Cas' neck. “Of course, you smell pretty ripe, too. Maybe we should both shower. I would hate for anyone else to get a chance to smell what's mine.”

  
Cas stilled at the realization that Dean had just vocalized his own thoughts. Dean must have noticed the change, because he pulled back and said, “I, I didn't, uh, what I meant was—”

  
His face was totally flustered. It was, in a word, adorable. Cas grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. “Shower. Now.”

  
“Yeah,” Dean said.

  
They stripped off their clothes in the bedroom and crowded into Cas' small shower. At first they were all efficiency, but then Dean offered to wash Cas' back, and Cas, of course, had to return the favor, and when Dean turned around Cas saw the scratches on his lower back, scratches that he had put there, and his dick snapped to attention so quickly that it was like a retriever catching the scent. Before he could move away it was poking into Dean's ass interestedly.

  
Cas opened his mouth to say he was sorry when Dean turned around and his own erection bumped into Cas'. “Me too, Cas,” he moaned, his lips capturing Cas' mouth at the same time his hand grabbed Cas' dick. “Me too.”

  
Cas reached out and grabbed Dean and they both worked each other furiously for a few moments, gasping and groaning into each others' mouths as their hands flew up and down the others' shafts. It was quick and dirty, and they were both coming in record time, mouths going slack as the last of their orgasms shook free. Dean leaned his head against Cas' shoulder, and Cas did the same.

  
“Holy shit, I don't think I've been this horny for this long since I was a teenager.”

  
Cas snickered into Dean's shoulder. “Same here.”

  
The rinsed off quickly after that and slipped their clothes back on, each grabbing a fresh shirt. Dean went to toss his sweaty shirt back into his duffel, but Cas stopped him and pointed to a hamper in the corner. “Just toss it in there; I need to do laundry soon anyway.” Dean hesitated, and Cas thought of all the reasons Dean might not want to put his shirt in Cas' laundry, chiefly among them being that it would be harder to make a quick exit if his stuff was scattered about. Before he could take it back, though, Dean had tossed his shirt on top of the hamper, and looked at Cas with a smile that on anyone else would be described as “shy.”  
“Thanks, Cas,” he said.

  
“You're welcome,” Cas replied. After Dean walked out of the room Cas stepped over to the hamper to actually put the shirt inside of it—why didn't it surprise him to find out Dean was a slob?—and looking over his shoulder first to make sure Dean wasn't looking he quickly held the shirt up to his face and gave it a quick sniff before closing it up inside. God, when had he turned into such a freak?

  
Dean was in the living room tying his shoes when the door was flung open and Claire burst in, shouting, “Caught you!” She stood in the doorway, gazing back and forth between Dean and Cas, brow wrinkling at the eight feet that clearly separated them. Her expression turned to one of awe though as soon as Dean looked up from his laces and turned his gaze on her. “Fuck me,” she said, in what Cas hoped was supposed to be under her breath. Then she turned her eyes back to Cas and said, “Well done, you.”

  
Dean snorted out a laugh as he stood up. “I like this one,” he said to Cas, just as Amelia came through the door behind Claire, breathing heavily. “Claire, I asked you to wait for me,” she said peevishly.

  
Claire moved away from her mother as if she were diseased. “I told you I didn't need for you to come up, Mother.”

  
“And I told you I needed to talk to Cas.” Cas had to stop himself from rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh. They were fighting. Again. Great. He turned to Amelia and waited for her to speak. “Claire is failing Latin,” she finally said.

  
“I'm not failing. I'm getting a 'D'.”

  
“A low 'D.”

  
“Still a 'D.' Not failing.”

  
Cas did sigh then, and was about to step forward to intervene when Dean surprised him by stepping forward himself and holding out his hand for Claire to shake. “Dean Winchester. And skip the bullshit, kid: I got enough 'D's' when I was in high school to know that yeah, a 'D' is failing.”

  
Claire glared at Dean and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to shake his hand. Dean quirked his eyebrow at her in amusement, and Cas wondered how Claire was managing to resist Dean's charm. If it were him he would be melting in a puddle on the floor. Before the situation became any more awkward, however, Amelia stepped forward and shook Dean's hand herself.

  
“Amelia Novak,” she said. “And this is my daughter, Claire.”

  
“Nice to meet you,” Dean said, smiling at Amelia. He looked over at Claire and winked. “You, too, Claire.”

  
That flustered Claire. She opened her mouth to say something back to Dean, but Cas cut her off. “Dean is right. A 'D' is failing.” He then looked at Amelia. “How can I help?”

  
She shook her head. “I hate to ask, but there's this extra credit project. It's due tomorrow. I only just found out about it myself, otherwise I would have asked you much sooner—”

  
“It's fine,” Cas said. “We can work on it tonight, after the lesson.”

  
He must have inadvertently glanced over at the sauce bubbling on the stove, because Amelia looked over and it and then back to Dean, and blushed. “Oh, but you have plans. No, that's fine, I can help Claire—”

  
“There's plenty,” Dean said. “You two could always stay for dinner.”

  
Cas looked at him, and Dean added quickly, “If that's alright with you, Cas.” He looked nervous as he said it. Did Dean think Cas was upset he was issuing dinner invitations on his behalf? Cas supposed he should be, but couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but pleasure at Dean's attempts to smooth out a rocky situation.

  
“Of course it's alright,” Cas said, trying to convey with his eyes just how alright that was. He must have succeeded, because Dean smiled at him warmly.

  
“Oh my god,” Claire said, interrupting them all. “I think I just developed diabetes.”

  
Cas saw Amelia's face get the pinched look it got when she was at the end of her rope dealing with Claire, but before she had a chance to say anything Dean said, “Aaaaand the moment is over.”

  
He pulled on his coat, and before Cas realized what he was going to do he had crossed over to him, taken his chin in his hand and pressed a quick kiss to Cas' lips. “I'll be back in an hour to finish cooking dinner,” he said. “Have fun.” Then he winked at Cas, and Cas felt himself go completely warm and gooey inside as Dean turned and walked away. He supposed Dean must have said his goodbyes to Amelia and Claire—he couldn't say, he was wrapped too tightly in a joyous haze at the fact that not only did Dean clearly want to be with him, he also clearly didn't care who knew. He sincerely doubted Dean had any idea what the inside of a closet even looked like. He smiled at the thought, and probably would have continued to stand there and smile if Claire's voice hadn't snapped him out of it.

  
“Are we going to have to get you a drool bucket?”

  
To Cas' surprise Amelia actually laughed at that. “Oh, Claire, honey, something tells me you're going to have to try a lot harder than that to ruin Cas' good mood today.”

  
What was even more surprising was when Claire laughed back. He turned to find the two women—because, at sixteen, Claire was more woman than girl—smiling at him affectionately, and he smiled back.

  
Yeah, it would take a lot to ruin his good mood today.


	8. "The Guests"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Cas plays is Regina Spektor's "How."

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“The Guests”

 

Dean skipped down the stairs; he was practically running by the time he got to the bottom floor, which is how he ended up leaping the last half flight.

“Ma'am,” he said to Mrs. Grady as she opened her door, probably to yell at him as he went past. A patented Dean Winchester smile, however, and she merely shook her head at him indulgently. Damn—he was really on his game today. Well, with everyone but Claire. But then again, he understood kids like Claire—kids that were just completely, 100% pissed off at the entire world. He had been one himself.

` Unlike Sammy. Sammy had been one of those kids who cried if you so much as looked at him funny. Which made it even funnier to think that he had gone into one of the most loathed professions in America—lawyer. Oh well, at least he was a prosecutor, and not some douchebag ambulance chaser. Thinking of Sam made Dean check his phone to see if he had missed any messages from him, but as he suspected, there were none. He knew Sam would call when he had some information, and not a minute before. Dean had made it pretty clear that he wasn't here on a social visit.

Looking at the blank screen in front of him, though, Dean found himself wondering what it would be like if he was. He thought about meeting up with Sammy for dinner and drinks, maybe dragging him to a strip club or two, or even letting Sammy drag him to some godawful art show or movie with subtitles. He thought about the grief he would give him, and the way Sammy would make his bitch face, and Dean would tease him about it, and—

But none of that was going to happen. Not this trip, and, despite what Sam had said the night before, not ever. After all, if he really wanted Dean to be a part of his life he would have made more of an effort to contact him before now. Which meant that what he had been saying had just been emotional bullshit brought up by this whole thing with Jo. It wasn't real. Not at all. Which was fine with Dean. It really was. Of course, he just couldn't help but wonder what Sam would think of Cas. And then he shook his head. This was ridiculous. Not only was he not going to be seeing Sam after this job was over, in all likelihood he wouldn't be seeing Cas, either.

And with that Dean's mood went straight into the toilet. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and ran his hand over the back of his head, causing someone behind him to snarl and say, “Watch where you're going, pal.” When they went to pass Dean, however, they took one look at his face and wisely ducked their head down and scurried away. _You'd better run, motherfucker_ , Dean thought. And then he moved out of the flow of traffic and took out his phone again, scrolling through the contacts. He found Jo's name and clicked on it to see the address. Damn. He'd been putting off going over to her place, not wanting to see any reminders of her, but there was no reason to avoid it now; after all, his mood couldn't get any worse.

He wished he had looked at the address when he was still back at Cas', so that he could ask for directions, but Dean was a grown ass man. He could ask for directions as well as anyone. He looked around, trying to find someone who didn't look like they were in a ridiculous hurry (who was he trying to kid?—it was a city— _everyone_ looked like they were in a ridiculous hurry) when he noticed that he was standing in front of the same small grocery he had stopped at for dinner supplies a few hours earlier. He stepped inside and saw the same old couple behind the counter. The old lady beamed when she saw him, and said, “Need more lube already?” And then she positively _cackled_.

Her husband put his face in his hands, but Dean just smiled at her. _This_ was someone he could get along with. “Not quite yet. But don't worry: you'll be the first to know. Well, second,” he said, and then he winked. She laughed that much harder, and her husband groaned.

“Please, don't encourage her.” His voice was annoyed, but the look he shot his wife was pure affection. Dean felt his good mood start to return. The man looked back at Dean and said, “What can we help you with?”

Dean held out his phone, showing him the address. “What's the best way to get here?”

The man looked at it. “Walk, probably. It's only a few blocks away.” And then he gave Dean directions. Dean thanked him and gave his wife another wink. To his delight, she winked right back.

When Dean got to Jo's apartment he checked up and down the corridor before he quickly picked the lock and let himself inside. He had been surprised not to find police tape on the door, as technically she was a missing person, but wasn't going to complain about dropping the list of potential charges against him down to just plain old B and E, without the addition of “interfering with a crime scene.” He carefully shut the door behind him and turned on the light. And had his gun in his hand in the next second.

The place was trashed. The pillows on the couch were ripped open, all of the books were pulled off of the shelves, some with their pages ripped out, all of the drawers were pulled out in the kitchen, their contents dumped onto the kitchen table, and even the freezer had been ransacked, the door left open so that the smell of rotting food filled the apartment. It looked like someone had caged a wild animal in here. Or, at least that was what it was _supposed_ to look like.

Dean knew the signs of a professional search. To the inexperience eye the destruction might look random, but Dean could see that nothing had been touched that wouldn't work as a hiding place. He wondered if whoever it was had found what they were looking for; knowing Jo, he doubted it. She was damn good at hiding things. Dean remembered one time when he had pissed her off so much she had hidden the keys to the Impala in revenge; it had taken him two days to find them. He had had to listen to her laugh about him being “on the rag about it” the whole time before he finally put it together and checked the bottom of a box of tampons in her bathroom and found them. Surely she would put her information about this case somewhere equally ironic as well.

He looked around the apartment. _Okay_ , Dean told himself. _Think._ Missing girls. Missing from Oakland. Oak? He looked under the kitchen table to see if there was something taped there. Nope. Carved up with strange symbols. Knives? No, the kitchen was cleaned out. Girls? Would she use the tampon trick again? Why not—it had worked on him, hadn't it? But when he went in the bathroom he saw that it had been trashed even more thoroughly than the kitchen. The toilet was even pushed over and broken, water spilling out all the way to the hall.

That gave him pause. Water. All of the girls had been recovered from the bay. They had all been under water. He went back to the living room, where a dirty fish tank sat on a shelf, one lone fish cowering underneath a ceramic castle.

“Sorry buddy,” Dean said, and grabbed the tank and carried it to the kitchen, careful not to slip on the wet tile in front of the fridge. He looked at the fish and shook his head. “You're going to a better place, believe me.” Then he started pouring the water from the tank into the sink.

The fish started swimming enthusiastically as the the water got lower and lower in its tank, and despite himself Dean remembered watching “Finding Nemo” with Sam and Jo when they were all still living with Ellen. Jo had been crazy about the movie. “Just keep swimming!” she would tease Dean whenever he was being particularly grumpy, or obstinate. Hell, this fish in the tank was probably named Nemo. Or Dory. That was the name of the other fish, right?

How the fuck did he even know that? With a sigh Dean set the tank on the counter and dug around on the floor until he found a tupperware bowl with a lid. Putting it on the counter he poured the last of the water—and the fish—into the bowl. He then put the lid on it and turned back to the fish tank. He reached inside and ran his hand through the thick layer of blue gravel that still clung to the bottom of the tank, and was rewarded when his fingertips felt plastic, rather than the glass bottom. Carefully running his hand around the edges he managed to lift up a gallon Ziploc. He slowly pulled it out.

Bingo.

Inside was a file folder—he recognized it as a twin to the one Sam had given him, complete with a bright red “Confidential” stamped on the outside. In addition to that, however, this one also had something written in Jo's handwriting on it. It was a series of names and locations. The first was Dr. Roberts, UC-Berkley, followed by Dr. Minit, UC-Santa Barbara, and finally Dr. Wallach, Scripps Institute. The first name was circled. He knew then that he was looking at Jo's research—the stuff she _hadn't_ shared with Sam.

Although he was tempted to go through the file right then, he didn't want to hang out in Jo's apartment any longer than he had to. He didn't know why, but he got the feeling that all of the destruction he was looking at was fresh. He checked the freezer to test his hypothesis, and sure enough, the food in the middle was still mostly frozen.

He quickly folded the file in half and shoved it in his inner coat pocket, and then picked up the bowlful of fish. At least this way if someone saw him coming out he could always say he had just stopped by to save the fish. He had just grabbed a jar of fish food from off of the shelf when his eye was caught by the sad little castle that was still in the empty fish tank. He stepped back and grabbed it as well and placed it carefully on the bottom of the tupperware. The fish darted inside immediately. “There you go, pal. Home sweet home.”

He would never, upon pain of death, admit to feeling sorry for a fish.

He walked back to Cas' place, checking his watch on the way. It had been almost an hour—plenty of time, he hoped, for Claire to be done with her piano lesson. He was a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to hear Cas play, but figured it all balanced out by not having to hear a surly teenager run through her scales.

When he got back, though, he still heard the sound of the piano. And it sounded good. He used his key to open the door, only belatedly realizing that Cas might not want Amelia to know that Dean had his own key. As he stepped inside, however, he saw that he needn't have worried—neither Cas or Claire paid him the slightest attention—they were too busy playing notes on the piano and then scribbling on a piece of sheet music propped up on the sound board.

“This is a terrible transcription Claire. Where did you buy it?”

“Cas. No one _buys_ music. I got it online.”

“Well, you certainly got your money's worth.”

“Can we still use it?”

“Sure. I just need to tweak it a little. Well, a lot.”

Dean shut the door behind him, and both Cas and Claire looked over at him. “What's in the bowl?” Claire asked.

Dean had almost forgotten about the fish, even though he was holding it in his hands. Suddenly he had an inspiration. “It's a fish. It's for you,” he said, handing it to Claire.

“What?” she said. She was so confused she forgot to be sarcastic.

“His name is Dory. He belonged to a friend of mine.”

Claire looked down at the bowl in her hands. “Um—thanks?”

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the fish food. “Here. You'll need this.”

“O-kay.”

Cas looked at Dean quizzically, but didn't say anything to him. To Claire he said, “Put Dory up there for now,” pointing at the top of the piano. “I think we're ready to try this out.” Claire set the bowl where Cas directed her to, obviously still too confused by the tupperware full of gift fish to argue, and the corner of Cas' mouth quirked up in a small smile that Dean longed to kiss. Instead however he moved into the kitchen. He still had to make the meatballs.

Amelia joined him. “A fish?” she asked.

Shit. He turned to her. “I should have asked you first, I'm sorry. It's okay, you don't have to take it—”

“No,” she said with a smile that was very similar to the one Cas had had, “it's fine. A little unexpected, but fine.”

She looked like she wanted to ask him more questions, but didn't. Dean was glad. “It's a long story,” he said.

“The best ones always are. Hopefully I'll get to hear it one day.”

“Hopefully.”

From the living room came the sound of very unclassical music. Amelia smiled and said, “This is Claire's reward. For staying out of trouble. Cas promised to teach her something contemporary.”

Dean opened the fridge and pulled out the ground beef as he listened to the music. “I like it. Who is it?”

“Regina Spektor.”

Dean had never heard of her, but he liked the way the piano sounded in the next room. It sounded like something you would hear at a bar.

Just thinking that reminded him of the beer he had bought earlier, and he opened the fridge now and snagged one. “Beer?” he said, offering it to Amelia.

She looked surprised, and then grateful. “Thank you.”

He wrenched the top off her bottle and then took one for himself. “Cheers,” he said, holding it up and taking a long swig. She took a smaller sip, and then murmured “Cheers,” back in return. Dean set the bottle on the counter, washed his hands, and then turned to the ground meat. Amelia stood behind him the whole time, until finally she cleared her throat and said, “Can I help?”

“Sure,” Dean said. “Would you start a pot of water boiling for the noodles?”

“Of course.”

He watched Amelia out of the corner of his eye, and noticed that she had to look in several cupboards first before she found a large enough pot. Hmm. So apparently dinner at Cas' was not a usual occurrence. He filed that piece of information away for future reference. The next words she spoke confirmed that thought.

“This is nice,” she said, having put the pot of water on a back burner, “having someone else make dinner. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dean said. He started dropping meatballs in a pan, where they sizzled sharply. He shook the pan one-handedly while taking a swig of beer with the other, and then leaned one hip on the counter and looked at Amelia. “So, you guys and Cas...?” He left the question hanging, hoping Amelia would fill in the blanks. Thankfully, she did.

“Cas and my late husband served together. When he got back he looked us up. Thank god he did. I don't know what I would have done without him. Claire was so close to her father, and when Jimmy died it was...difficult for her.”

Dean heard all of the words that weren't said. He turned back to the pan, shook it again, and asked, “How old was she?”

“Thirteen.”

He winced. “Thirteen is tough. Old enough to tell people to fuck off, but still young enough to need them not to.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “You sound like you know first hand. Do you have children?”

Dean snorted. “Not really. I mean, I practically raised my baby brother. My mom died when I was a kid, and my dad—well, he wasn't really the same after that.”

“I see,” Amelia said, and took a long pull off of her beer, and Dean got the idea that she really did. “Where is your brother now?”

Dean stiffened, realizing that if he told her that his brother lived in the area she would ask questions about his life that Dean wouldn't be able to answer, because he didn't know jack shit about his life now. And he also realized how shitty of a brother that made him sound—more so because he had just admitted to being both a brother _and_ a father.

God. He really was an asshole.

Luckily, though, he was saved from answering by Claire bouncing into the room, clearly excited. “Come on, come on. Come listen to it.”

Amelia laughed and said, “My goodness, Claire, you haven't been this excited about a new piece in ages.”

“That's because all of the new pieces Cas teaches me usually suck ass.”

“Claire!” Amelia gasped, clearly mortified. Dean's ringing laughter, however, broke the tension, and they followed Claire back out to the living room without Amelia saying anything else. Claire plopped down on the piano bench next to Cas, and Cas turned to smile at Dean and Amelia before he looked at Claire.

“I don't think you're quite ready for a recital yet, Claire. You only just started learning the piece.”

“That's why I'm not going to play it. You are. I want my mom to hear how it's supposed to sound.”

Cas looked dubious, but he put his hands on the keys. “Alright.”

“And sing, too.” It was not a request.

Cas raised one eyebrow. “Any other tricks you'd like me to perform?”

Claire didn't bat an eye. “Give me a minute. I'll think of something.”

Cas rolled his eyes, and again Dean had to fight down the overwhelming urge to kiss him. He seemed so comfortable bickering with Claire. “Fine,” Cas said. “But you're turning the pages. And remember, you need to look at the _notes_ , not the words, to turn the page in time.”

“I know, I know.”

Cas turned back to the piano and began to play. The words came immediately. They were lovely. And sad. And hopeful. It was a song about being in love, and losing your love, and slowly, reluctantly moving forward.

_How can I forget your love?_

_How can I never see you again?_

_There’s a time and place_

_For one more sweet embrace_

_And a time, ooh_

_when it all, ooh_

_Went wrong_

_I guess you know by now_

_That we will meet again somehow_

 

_Oh baby_

_How can I begin again?_

_How can I try to love someone new?_

_Someone who isn’t you_

_How can our love be true?_

_When I’m not, ooh_

_I’m not over you_

Dean saw Amelia dab at the corner of one eye and realized the song felt personal to her. She saw him watching and gave him a wan smile, and he looked away again, focusing instead on Cas.

And saw the same look on Cas' face.

He looked between the two of them again, just to make sure, but yeah, they both had the same melancholy looks on their faces. They both looked like they were remembering the fucking loves of their lives.

Huh.

He looked at Claire, to see if she was picking up on it as well, but she seemed oblivious, eyes furrowed in concentration as she watched the notes. The last few notes were quiet ones, and when they faded away there was silence for a moment before Amelia cleared her throat and spoke.

“That was lovely, Cas. Thank you.”

Cas ducked his head. “Thank you. It's really not in the right key for my voice, but I think it will suit Claire quite well.”

“It makes me think of Dad,” Claire said, looking down at the keys.

“Me, too,” Cas said, so quietly Dean wasn't sure if anyone else heard him say it, especially over the sound of Amelia clapping her hands together and saying, brightly, “Dinner smells great, don't you think, Claire? What do you say to Dean?”

It was such an obvious, awkward way to turn the conversation away from Claire's dead dad that Dean suddenly understood why Sam got so frustrated when he did the same thing to him. In fact, he was thinking more of Sam when he turned to Amelia and said, “Jesus, and I thought _I_ was bad with chick flick moments.”

There was stunned silence for a moment while Dean's words sunk in and he sputtered out the beginnings of an apology, but then they were all laughing, and Claire turned to Cas and said, “You're keeping this one, right?” and Cas gazed up at Dean, his eyes sparkling, and said, “I'm trying,” and then they were all moving to the table. Cas had to drag the piano bench over so they all had a place to sit, and Cas and Amelia sparred goodnaturedly for a few moments over who should have the make do seat. Dean looked at Claire and said, “Fuck that: I cooked, I get a chair,” and Claire said, “Well, I get a chair, too. Because _reasons_ ,” and by the time it was all decided the food was dished up, and Dean set a plate in front of Cas, who was still a few inches lower than he should be, and said, “Here ya go, Bilbo” and then they were all laughing again and the rest of the meal was spent in utter and complete nerddom as they all tried to out geek each other with LOTR references.

After dinner Cas and Claire spread Claire's Latin project out on the table while Dean and Amelia washed the dishes. After listening to Cas trying to teach Claire the difference between the subjective and the ablative or some such thing for nearly ten minutes with no apparent success Dean turned around, leaned his hip against the sink and said, “Just out of curiosity, what's the real issue here? Claire learning Latin or Claire failing Latin?”

Cas and Claire both looked at Amelia, who sighed and said, “Well, ideally, Claire would both learn _and_ pass Latin, but...”

“But failing is the big issue, right?” Dean crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Amelia admitted.

Dean pointed at Cas. “Write the damn project. Make at least three dumb mistakes.” When Cas started to open his mouth (to protest, Dean guessed) Dean pointed at Claire. “Copy it out in your own handwriting. And don't fall so far behind next time.”

Cas shut his mouth and looked at Amelia. Claire, who had opened hers (probably to protest Dean's added lecture) did the same. Amelia threw up her hands and said, “Fine. Just do it.” Dean glanced back at the table in time to see Claire mouth the words “Keep him,” to Cas, and Cas pinch his lips together to hold back a smile.

Dean and Amelia retreated to the living room after that (returning Cas' hobbit chair to it's rightful place as a piano bench), and were quietly trading raising teenager horror stories (Dean had to cut a few of his own off when he realized he was talking about himself, not Sam) when Cas and Claire came in and said that they were done. As Amelia and Claire gathered their things Dean saw Amelia pull Cas aside and whisper something into his ear which made Cas roll his eyes and kiss her on the forehead. Dean handed Dory to Claire and said, “Don't forget your fish, kid.”

Claire looked over her shoulder at her mom and Cas, and said to Dean, quietly, “I've known Cas for three years.”

Dean raised one eyebrow and said, “Is this the 'I have a shovel and I'm not afraid to use it speech'?”

Claire didn't smile. “No,” she said. “This is the 'I haven't heard him laugh that much the whole time' speech. _Thank you_.” And then she was kissing Dean on the cheek and running out the door. Amelia looked a little shocked at her daughter's abrupt departure but didn't say anything about it as she shook Dean's hand and thanked him again for dinner.

“It was my pleasure,” Dean said, and then she was gone, too, and he was alone with Cas.

Cas eyed him warily, as if he was suddenly not sure how to interact all on his own with Dean again. Dean wandered over to the piano and sat down and played “Heart and Soul” with one finger. Cas slipped in next to him and played complimentary chords so that the tinny little child's piece sounded actually decent.

“We make beautiful music together,” Dean said, giving Cas a cheeky smile.

Cas shook his head and smiled, but didn't look up from the keys. “Apparently so. Amelia and Claire were both at pains to let me know how much they liked you.”

Dean reached over and took Cas' chin in his fingers, turning the other man's face so that he could look into those startlingly blue eyes. “And what about you? Do you like me?” Before Cas could answer, though, Dean leaned forward and kissed him softly.

Cas sighed against Dean's lips and said, “Do you mean _like_ you or _like_ like you?”

Dean chuckled, and said, “Both.” And then he ghosted another light kiss over Cas' lips.

“Both,” Cas replied, his voice so low that Dean was surprised the lower notes on the piano didn't rumble along with it.

“Hmm,” Dean said, and moved his lips to Cas' jaw, where he bit ever so gently against the sharp angle. He was rewarded with a soft moan and the feel of Cas' long, delicate fingers clutching at his shirt.

“Cas?” Dean asked, his lips pulling back and his eyes capturing Cas' again. They were almost blown black with desire, and Dean felt his cock go from “interested” to “on board” so quickly he was surprised it didn't make an actual sound. “Never mind,” he said, leaning forward again, but Cas used the hands that were on his chest to hold him back.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice taking on the beginnings of concern.

Dean knew that Cas wouldn't let him drop it. He cleared his throat. “It's just, I was wondering, um, Amelia,” Dean trailed off. Why had he brought this up?

Cas sat back, his hands leaving Dean's chest. Damn— _why_ had he brought this up? “What about Amelia?”

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, and then bit the bullet. “Does she know that you were in love with her husband?”

Cas sucked in a breath, and looked trapped. “How?” he asked.

Dean cut him off before he could say another word. “It was the song. You both—it's just—well, you both had the exact same expression on your faces. I kind of figured it out.”

Cas shook his head. “That's amazing. And disturbing.”

“I'm a detective, remember?” He put his hand on Cas' arm. “Shit, you know what, it's none of my business, I'm sorry man.”

“No, it's okay. It's just, I've never been able to talk about this with anyone.” Cas took Dean's hand off of his arm, and Dean felt disappointment curl inside of him at the thought that Cas was now going to close up and push him away. But then Cas twined their fingers together and said, “It's nice,” and Dean felt hope blossom in it's place. Dean nodded, and Cas continued. “And to answer your question, no, she doesn't know.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and then he asked the next question that was foremost in his mind. “Was it mutual?”

Cas shook his head. “No. Jimmy never knew, either. And even if he had, he wouldn't have... he wasn't... he would have never.” He took a deep breath and collected himself. “Jimmy was very straight. And very much in love with Amelia. My love was, well, I believe the proper term is 'unrequited.'”

Cas looked down at their fingers, and slowly lowered his lips to kiss Dean's knuckles. Dean took his other hand and lifted Cas' chin until he was looking at Dean again. “Cas?” he asked again.

“Yes?” The look on Cas' face was open and curious, and if Dean was honest, a little fearful.

Dean wanted nothing more than to put those fears to rest. “Just so you know, Cas, I requite. If that's even a word. I requite a lot.”

Cas smiled then, big and wide. “I requite, too, Dean. I requite a lot, too.”

 


	9. "Ain't No Cure For Love"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mention of past suicide

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“Ain't No Cure For Love”

 

Dean sat with his back against the wall and tried to bring his heart rate back down to normal while the rest of his body felt like it was going to melt from post-orgasmic bliss. Cas was curled into his side, the fingers of one hand drawing idle patterns on Dean's arm as he hummed contentedly under his breath. Dean ran his fingers through the mop of Cas' hair and Cas positively  _purred_ , rubbing his face against Dean's side in pleasure. Dean thought that he would have to remember how much Cas liked that for the next time. Which, judging by the renewed interest his cock was already showing, wasn't going to be too far away.

_Down boy_ , he thought to himself sternly, and went back to concentrating on the cuddling. Yeah, he was cuddling. What's worse, he was  _enjoying_ cuddling. Damn, he was so fucked. And all because of this beautiful, wonderful, enigmatic man that was wrapped around him like the world's sexiest octopus. He wondered if Cas liked octopus? Probably not: he seemed like the type that was way too kind to ever eat anything that intelligent.

Suddenly Dean wanted the answer to the octopus question and more; he wanted to know  _everything_ about Cas.

“How did you learn to read Latin so well?”

Cas stopped playing with his arm and went still. “In the seminary.”

It took a moment for Dean to process that. “The seminary? You're a priest?” Cas was silent. “Dude, that's kind of hot.”

Cas snorted against him, and the air coming out of his nose tickled Dean's side. “Sorry to disappoint you, then. I never took my vows. I left before that.”

Dean bent down and pressed his lips to the top of Cas' head. “S'okay. I got all sorts of other kinks we can explore.”

“I bet you do,” Cas said, his voice like whisky straight out of the barrel. Damn, that voice—that was a kink all in itself.

They sat there quietly for a minute, and then Dean asked, “Why didn't you ever take your vows? Not that I'm complaining or anything, but did you, I don't know, lose your faith?”

“Only in myself.” Cas sighed, and Dean couldn't help but pull him closer in assurance. Cas seemed to appreciate that, and melted further into his arms.

“S'nice,” he mumbled against Dean's side, his voice all drowsy contentment. When next he spoke though his tone was more awake, more thoughtful. “I fell in love with one of my fellow students. When that happened I realized that my calling wasn't as strong as I once believed it to be. I had always thought that my lack of interest in anyone in that way was because I was meant to serve God, but after I met Patrick I realized that that was not the case—I just hadn't met the right person yet.”

“How old were you?”

“When I met Patrick? Nineteen.”

“You were nineteen before you met someone you were interested in? Your standards must have been pretty high back then.”

“Actually, they've only gotten higher since. It turned out that Patrick wasn't a very good choice.”

Dean heard the frown in Cas' voice, and stroked one finger across Cas' lips. Cas caught it briefly between his teeth, his tongue flicking out to brush it for an instant, and Dean felt himself grow warm. He had a feeling Cas was trying to distract him. But he had a stronger feeling that Cas needed to talk about this, so he pulled his finger back and tapped it softly on Cas' nose. “What happened?”

Cas sighed. “Patrick had a harder time accepting his feelings then I did. He was a few years older than me, so he was much closer to taking his vows. In retrospect, he had much more to lose than I did. If I had known that then—if I had thought about it more, and thought it through—I wouldn't have made the decision I did.”

“To sleep with him?” It seemed like the logical question.

“No. To out him.” Dean couldn't help it: he sucked in an involuntary hiss and felt Cas tense up.

“Sorry,” Dean said, rubbing Cas' shoulder. “I got outed against my will, too. A football player I had sucked off in high school. Announced it in front of the whole cafeteria. Apparently, sucking a dick makes you gay, but  _getting_ your dick sucked just makes you lucky.”

“What did you do?” Cas asked.

Dean shrugged. “I kicked his ass. Got suspended for a week, which didn't really matter, since we left that town a few days later anyway. The next school I went to I made sure to confine myself to the girls. It wasn't that big of a deal.” Cas was silent long enough that Dean understood that it had been a big deal with Patrick. “How did Patrick take it?”

“Badly.” Cas pulled out of Dean's arms to sit up and look at him. Dean thought that his eyes looked, if anything, even bluer in the moonlight.  _Fuck_ . He was going to be writing sonnets about them next.

“You must understand, Dean, I was young, I didn't understand. I thought I was doing the right thing. When they confronted us I thought I was being honorable when I admitted what we had done, what we had been doing. I was proud of our love, and I thought Patrick was, too. I thought I was standing up for him. I didn't realize I was pulling him down.”

Cas looked so vulnerable, so frantic, that Dean wrapped both hands around his face and stroked his thumbs over Cas' cheeks. “Baby, what happened?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

Cas closed his eyes. “He killed himself.”

Dean pulled Cas in so quickly that Cas gave a squeak of surprise. “I'm so sorry,” Dean said into the top of his head. They remained that way for a long moment, Dean stroking Cas' shoulders and arms, his hands moving gently and soothingly. Finally, though, his curiosity got the better of him, and he asked, “How did they catch you?”

To his great surprise and relief, Cas choked back a laugh. “They noticed that someone was stealing shortening from the kitchens.”

Dean's brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment, and then he got it. “What? Dude, no. That's just wrong. My dick hurts just thinking about it. Lube is one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. Use it, man. Every time.”

“We didn't know,” Cas said in protest. And then, in confusion, “Is it painful for the other person as well? I didn't realize.”

“Is it—what? Of course it is. Surely you've tried to do it rough when you're drunk and horny.”

Dean looked down and saw the tips of Cas' ears go a bright red. What's more, he could almost  _feel_ the heat coming off of Cas' face. He grabbed his chin and tried to make Cas look up at him, but Cas refused. He lifted up one hand, waved it around in circles, and then said, “I've never, um...”

Dean tried to interpret Cas' crude sign language. It was either, “I've never landed a helicopter on an aircraft carrier,” or “I've never topped.” Dean decided to go with the latter. It wouldn't surprise him to find out that Cas  _had_ landed a helicopter on an aircraft carrier once. “You've never topped?” He took Cas' silence for a yes. “You wanna?”

Dean wasn't sure who the words surprised more, him or Cas. Dean  _never_ offered to bottom _._ The few times he had done it were because he had been too drunk to say no, and the only thing he remembered from those encounters was feeling sore and ashamed the next day. Not ashamed at being penetrated, but ashamed at giving over control. But the thought of Cas inside him was different. The thought of giving Cas control didn't terrify him—it made him feel secure.

He became aware of the fact that Cas hadn't answered him. He looked down, expecting to see Cas looking shy and hesitant, and was shocked to see that instead Cas looked like he was lit from within with some kind of inner fire. “Cas?” he asked again.

Cas surged up then and kissed him like he was drowning and Dean was air. “Yes,” he said fiercely against Dean's lips. “Yes, oh god, yes.” Dean felt his insides quiver with excitement and desire. It looked like not only was he going to get topped, he was going to get  _the shit_ topped out of him.

He smiled against Cas' lips. “Okay, tiger, but no shortening.”

Cas huffed a laugh. “Only lube. I promise.”

“And lots of it. It's been a while since I've done this.”

Cas pulled back then, his eyes serious. “I won't hurt you, Dean.”

“I know you won't, baby. I know you won't.”

Cas reached over to the side of the bed and grabbed the lube from where Dean had dropped it earlier. Dean took the opportunity to scoot down on the bed and spread his legs, listening to the snap of the cap. He closed his eyes, and was pleasantly startled when the next thing he felt was Cas' lips pressing down against his forehead, his eyelids, his cheek, and then, finally, his lips. Cas slowly licked his way into Dean's mouth, and Dean was so soft and pliant from Cas' unhurried kisses that he barely registered it when he felt Cas' warm, lube slick finger circling around his hole.

Cas pulled back from his lips and looked at him seriously, his finger still circling gently. The reverent look on his face was at such odds with what his hand was doing between Dean's legs that Dean couldn't help the cheeky grin and wink that he flashed Cas' way. Cas grinned back at him, and then slipped his finger inside Dean. Dean tensed up a bit, clamping down on Cas' finger, and Cas leaned back in and pressed his lips to Deans again, breathing a moan onto Dean's mouth as he whispered, “So tight.”

Dean moaned back in return and felt himself relax. Cas slid his finger in farther and then slowly slid it back out again, and this time his voice stuttered as he pressed his forehead to Dean's and said, “So fucking tight.”

Dean couldn't help it: Cas' arousal was infectious, and he pushed his hips up against Cas' finger. “More Cas. More.”

“Yes,” Cas said, and pulled out his finger. Dean wanted to whine that that was  _less_ , not  _more,_ but then he heard Cas reach for the lube again and smiled to think that Cas had remembered what he had said about using lots of the stuff. Before he time to think anything else though Cas was kissing him again, his tongue swirling with Dean's in a kiss so obscenely wet that Dean idly wondered if they could hear it in the street. Then he felt Cas push two fingers inside him and rotate them slowly, twisting and turning them until they brushed up against his prostate and Dean was arching up off of the bed, his mouth pulling away from Cas' so that he could shout, “Oh, fuck Cas,  _there_ , right there,” and he  _knew_ that they had heard that in the street and he didn't care, because Jesus  _fuck_ , that felt incredible.

In the back of his mind he was aware of Cas still kissing him, of Cas' mouth moving from his mouth to his throat to his nipples, but it wasn't until Cas bit down softly on one of his nipples that he could focus on anything but the sharp spikes of pleasure coming from Cas' fingers in his ass. “Please, Cas, want you, want you inside me so badly,” he said, and he didn't even care that his voice was a thin, needy whine.

Cas withdrew his fingers and Dean moaned at the loss but comforted himself with the knowledge that they would soon be replaced by Cas' cock. So he was confused when Cas sat up and said, “No, Dean. You're not ready yet.”

Dean opened his eyes to see Cas putting even more lube on his fingers—Christ, they were going to be swimming in the stuff—and he started to protest when Cas swiftly bent over, and, at the same time he slid three fingers into Dean wrapped his other hand around Dean's dick and slid his thumb over the slit at the top. Dean pushed himself up on his elbows to watch as Cas brought his thumb up to his mouth and licked the precome he had gathered off it before he made a sound in his throat like he had just tasted the best Belgian chocolate. “Dean. You taste so good.”

There was that voice again. Whisky and cigarettes and  _sex_ . Dean moaned at the thought that  _he_ was making Cas make that voice. The taste of  _his_ come on Cas' tongue. His dick jumped, and Dean suddenly knew with a certainty that he could come just from the sound of Cas' voice alone. With a growl he reached for the condoms he had dumped near the bed earlier and threw one at Cas. It hit him in the chest, but Cas still managed to catch it in one hand. “ _Now_ , you bastard,” Dean growled.

Cas looked down at the condom in his hand, turned it over, and squinted. His fingers stopped moving in Dean's ass as he stared at the square piece of foil. Dean blinked. “Dude, are you  _reading the instructions?_ ”

Once again, Cas blushed—he fucking  _blushed—_ and it was the most adorable thing Dean had ever seen. Kittens and rainbows and shit. Unfortunately, Dean wasn't exactly in the mood for adorable right now. “Give it here,” he said, and took the condom from Cas' unresisting hand. He ripped the package open with his teeth, pulled out the condom, and with one hand slid it on Cas' cock. Cas looked down like he had never seen such a thing as a condom on his cock before (and Dean was starting to get the idea that he hadn't) and then back up at Dean. Dean grabbed his chin in one hand, pulled him down for a soft kiss, and whispered against his lips, “You're lucky you're so damn cute,” before laying back down again, grabbing his knees in his hands and pulling them up to his shoulders.

“Now fuck me.”

Cas didn't have to be told twice. He pulled his fingers out of Dean and coated his shaft in yet more lube before moving between Dean's legs and pressing the tip of his cock to Dean's hole. With no preamble he pushed inside, and Dean hissed at the burn. He looked at Cas and saw that Cas had his eyes closed and his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly struggling to hold himself back. It was so damn sexy that Dean felt himself open up, and watched Cas' face as Dean's ass pulled him in. He was so intent on the way Cas' mouth formed a perfect “O” that he barely registered it when Cas bottomed out with a soft whimper.

Dean released his knees and wrapped his legs around Cas' waist, pulling him that much closer. He slid his hands up Cas' arms, feeling the muscles there standing out sharply, and with a flash he remembered the calm, methodical way Cas had dispatched the two men in the alley, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Cas could reach down and kill him now without a second's hesitation.

And fuck, if that wasn't the sexiest thought in the world.

He moved his hands up to Cas' face, smoothing his fingers over the tension he felt there. “Baby,” he whispered. “Move.”

Cas rolled his hips with a groan, his eyes snapping open to stare down at Dean, and Dean heard himself gasp at the intensity there. He felt like Cas was looking into his very soul, worshipping him,  _loving_ him, and the word that escaped his lips was a prayer and a plea and an exhalation all at the same time.

“ _Cas_ .”

“Dean,” Cas ground out in reply, and then he was bending down and Dean was leaning up and their mouths met and it wasn't the crash of lips and the click of teeth that Dean would normally expect, but a soft, sweet kiss, full of trust and faith and  _love_ , and as Dean lay back down and watched Cas work above him, thrusting and panting and saying his name, over and over again, like a chant, “ _DeanDeanDeanDean.”_ Dean knew with a certainty that he was in love with Cas, and as the realization hit he felt himself come unexpectedly between them, untouched, the force of his ejaculation so strong that he felt it hit him in the chin.

Cas groaned at the sight of it, and leaned down and began to lick Dean clean for a few strokes before Dean felt him stiffen, whimper and gasp his way to his own orgasm. Dean held him as he shuddered his way to completion, stroking his back and whispering nonsense in his ear, words like  _baby_ and  _so good_ and  _love._

Cas gave one more heaving sigh and then lifted up off of Dean, supporting himself on his elbows as he looked down at him, his mouth soft and wet and curled up into a smile so smug all Dean could think of was  _the cat who ate the cream_ , and he smiled himself, the biggest, widest,  _best_ smile in his whole arsenal of smiles, and then he winked, and Cas threw back his head and flat out  _laughed._

And Dean felt as happy about making him laugh as he did about making him come. 

Dean moved his legs down from around Cas' waist then, and Cas pulled out of Dean and looked down at the condom on his cock again in confusion. Dean snorted and said, “For fuck's sake,” before he very carefully pulled it off of Cas, tied a knot in it, grabbed Cas' hand and slapped the used condom in it. “ _You_ get to get up and throw it away. Welcome to the world of topping.”

Cas grimaced, but he got up and went to the bathroom, hopefully to throw the used condom away. When he came back he had a wet wash cloth which he used to clean up the last of Dean's come and wipe the excess lube from between Dean's legs. He then slid back between the sheets and pulled Dean so that he was lying with his back flush against Cas' front.

“Why am I the little spoon?” Dean grumbled, even though he secretly loved the feeling of Cas' arms wrapping around him, and the fact that he got to play with Cas' long, delicate fingers all he wanted.

“Welcome to the world of bottoming,” Cas said in his ear, and Dean chuckled before he stilled again, Cas' breathing a steady presence behind him.

Dean thought about the revelation he had had earlier—about being in love with Cas—and let himself imagine for a moment what it would feel like to say the words out loud. He dismissed the thought instantly, realizing that it would undoubtedly freak Cas the fuck out.

As it should. That didn't stop it from being true.

Dean didn't question whether or not it was possible to fall in love with someone he had just met—he had done it before, with Lisa, and Cassie, and that asshole football player back in high school, the one whose name Dean honestly couldn't even remember. Was it Dwight? God, he hoped not—what a stupid name that was.

But that was how it worked for Dean—when he fell, he fell hard, and immediately. The trouble for Dean had never been  _falling_ in love—it had been  _staying_ in love. It had been holding on to that sense that the person he was in love with was really the same amazing person they had seemed to be when he first met them. Sometimes, like with Dwight (God, that really was his name, wasn't it?) it didn't take long before he realized his mistake, and let go. Other times, like with Lisa, it took a while for the truth to sink in, and the letting go had been harder, even though it had still been expected.

He wondered what it would be about Cas that finally made him let go, and frowned. For the first time in a long time he hoped that the answer was: nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

When Cas woke up the first thing he noticed was that he was in bed alone, and he felt like he had just been dropped into a pool of icy water. Then he heard the sound of papers being rustled out in the kitchen, and smelled coffee, and relaxed. He thought about rolling over and going back to sleep—it was so early it was still dark out—but he wanted to kiss Dean even more, so he got up, took a piss, brushed his teeth (might as well), and then padded out into the kitchen where he found Dean sitting at the table with a bunch of papers spread out in front of him and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Cas felt his heart thump twice and then flop down in his chest at the sight.  _Reading glasses_ . For the love of Christ, how in the world was he supposed to resist Dean in a pair of sexy-as-fuck  _reading glasses_ ?

He must have made a small sound (Cas would deny to his dying day that it was a whimper) because Dean looked up at him and hastily pulled the glasses from his face. “What?” Dean said, shooting him a look as if to say,  _go on, make fun of me_ .

Cas walked over and took the glasses out of Dean's hand and slipped them back on his face before he bent down to kiss Dean's lips. “Do you have any idea how hot you look in these glasses?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. None hot.” He reached up and removed them again, and then pulled Cas down so that he was sitting in Dean's lap. “Did I wake you up?” He nuzzled into Cas' neck as he spoke, and Cas leaned his head back to give Dean better access. He felt Dean sucking a hickey into the very visible spot just below his ear, but he didn't give a damn. Right now Dean could offer to tattoo “Property of Dean Winchester” across his forehead and Cas would obligingly agree.

“No,” he said, proud of the way his voice sounded almost normal. “You didn't wake me. I was just wondering where you went.”

Dean kissed the mark he had just made on Cas and hummed in what Cas could only guess was pride before pulling back and saying, “I got up to work. I found these in Jo's apartment yesterday and wanted to see what they were.”

Cas turned to the table and then slid off of Dean's lap when he saw what he was looking at. “Tidal charts?” he asked, curiously.

Dean groaned. “Shit. It took me like an hour online to figure that out. I should've just woken you up. How did you know?”

Cas thought of the times when Michael had taken him and the other cousins out on his boat—yacht, really—and made them learn how navigate. Understanding the currents and tides of the bay area had been a mandatory part of his education. Now would be the perfect time to tell Dean everything—about Michael, and his other uncle, Lucifer, and how it was exactly that he had known about the Angel murders—but then he saw the fond smile on Dean's face, and imagined that smile turning into a frown as Dean realized everything Cas had withheld from him, and Cas couldn't do it. After all, he told himself, realistically this was all going to end when the case was solved. Dean didn't live here, wasn't going to live here, and it wasn't like he was going to start a long distance relationship with a man he barely knew. Why should Cas ruin the few good days he would have with Dean? He would be alone again soon enough—surely he deserved to have something nice for just a  _few_ days, didn't he?

He looked over at Dean and saw that he was still waiting for Cas to answer. “My uncle had a boat,” he said, and Dean seemed satisfied with that. “But you figured it out well enough, it seems. How do you know that these relate to the case?”

Dean reached out and picked one up. “I think the fact that they were hidden—and that Jo's apartment had been ransacked—was clue enough.”

“So someone else had searched Jo's apartment first? And didn't find them?”

“Yep.”

“Where were they hidden?”

Dean grinned. “In the bottom of the fish tank.”

Cas looked at him in sudden understanding. “Hence, Dory.”

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Dude, who the fuck says 'hence'?”

Cas felt himself blush, but smiled when he saw that Dean was gazing at him affectionately. “How did you know that Jo would hide something there? Had you two agreed on it previously?”

Dean shrugged. “Nah. Just a hunch.” He turned back to the table.

Cas was impressed. “You're really quite good at this, aren't you?”

Dean didn't even look up. “Not really. But what else am I going to do?”

Cas sat down at the table and caught Dean's eye. “Are you kidding me? You're amazing.”

Dean stiffened, clearly uncomfortable with the way this conversation was going. “Whatever. Look, you understand these, right? Can you look through them and see how they should be organized?”

Cas turned to the charts on the table, and said, “Of course.” He picked the papers up one at a time, and soon noticed that they could be grouped into just three separate dates. There were so many of them because they represented  _all_ the tides for the entire bay. He was sorting them into three piles when he said, casually, “But you  _are_ very good at your job, you know.”

Dean sighed. “Thank you. Now—”

“Tell me more about how you learned to do it?” Cas asked, before Dean could change the subject again.

“I am definitely taking you along the next time I need to interrogate someone,” he muttered, and then sighed. “On the job training. Like I said before, my dad used to take off for weeks at a time, and it was up to me to find him and drag his ass back before Child Protective Services figured out Sammy and I were alone.”

Dean clearly didn't want to give out any more information about his past than he had before.“I'm sorry, it's none of my business.”

Dean softened visibly. “It's okay. My dad, well—it's kind of a touchy subject for me, you know? Half the time I feel like I'm defending him, and the other half I feel like calling him out for being a no good son of bitch.”

There was silence as Cas finished putting the papers in their respective piles. “I never knew my father,” he said, and then he added, “There. I've separated them by date. Do these dates mean anything?”

Dean leaned forward, all talk of fathers apparently forgotten. “These are all from a day or two before the bodies were found.” Dean scratched his head. “Okay, so this explains when the bodies were dropped in the water. Which is important  _why?_ ” Cas watched as Dean sat back and looked at the papers in front of them, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. Everything about his posture cried out  _thinking_ , and Cas wondered if Dean's relaxed and easy manner was just a sham to hide the fact that Dean Winchester was a very intelligent man. Then Dean leaned forward, smiled, and said, “Well fuck me,” and Cas had to think that, no, no one could fake it that well. Dean was relaxed, and easy,  _and_ brilliant.

“So all of these charts were for a day or two before the bodies were found, right?”

Cas nodded. “That's what you said, yes.”

Dean went on, clearly talking to himself as much as he was Cas. “So Jo clearly thought that all of the bodies had been dumped then.” He looked up at Cas, the look on his face totally saying “Eureka!” Cas wished that his face was saying the same, but he knew it looked confused. Dean sighed, and said, “But we know that at least some of the girls had been missing for  _weeks_ before they were found.”

Cas tried to follow. “So Jo was wrong?”

Dean shook his head. “No. If Jo was wrong she wouldn't have been at such great pains to hide her research. If Jo was wrong she wouldn't have been ki— _taken_ ,” he corrected himself in time. “No, Jo was right. All of the bodies were dumped shortly before they were found. Even though they had been missing for weeks.”

“But why is that important?”

Dean thought for a minute, then snapped his fingers. “Maybe because the bodies were all dumped from the same place. I don't know much about tides, but obviously, from these charts, they're pretty predictable, right?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, they are.” He was beginning to see where Dean was going with this. He leaned back and looked at Dean. “How do you think Jo figured it out?”

“I don't know.”

Cas watched him retreat to his thoughtful place again.

Cas continued to watch him, but instead of making him uncomfortable it just seemed to make him focus more. He watched as he flipped through the pages again until he stopped and tapped his fingers on some letters scribbled in one of the margins. It was hard to tell what they were while looking at them upside down but it looked like they said “DLB+2WK.” He was about to ask Dean if he knew what that meant when he saw Dean lick his slightly dry lips and decided he should get up and get Dean something to drink. He wasn't sure if there was anything in the apartment besides coffee and the beer Dean had bough the day before, but then remembered he had bought some orange juice a while back. He frowned and tried to remember how long ago that was as he stood up and pulled the orange juice in question out of the fridge. He opened the carton, gave it a quick sniff and then his eyebrows flew up to his hairline.

“You didn't by any chance put some vodka in this orange juice, did you?” he asked Dean hopefully.

Dean quirked his eyebrows back at him. “Sorry, dude, no. I keep my daytime drinking out in the open.”

Cas frowned. “That's what I was afraid of,” he said as he moved to the sink and poured out orange juice that was apparently so old it had turned alcoholic.

Dean crossed his arms and shook his head. “First the lettuce, and now this? Is that a fridge or a food hospice?”

Cas frowned again and sat back down, after tossing the now empty carton in the trash below the sink.

Dean gazed at him affectionately for a moment before he gave his head a little shake and reached for the papers in front of him again. “Anyway, like I said, I have no idea how Jo figured all of this out. But apparently she let the wrong people know about it.”

Cas felt himself go still. “What do you mean?”

Dean leaned back and looked at Cas appraisingly, then seemed to come to a conclusion. “Jo was working for the DA's office when she disappeared.” He flipped the file over and showed Cas the names written on the front. “I looked it up, and these people are all marine experts the DA's office collaborates with. She called at least one of them to ask them about this, I'm sure.”

Cas chose his next words carefully. “Surely you don't think—I mean, the DA is trying to  _solve_ these crimes, right?”  _Right?_ Cas told the voice in his head to stop shouting.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Supposedly. All I know is, I've investigated a lot of cases in my day where it turned out that what I thought was police incompetence was just a massive cover-up. Happens more than you'd like to think. It's one of the main reasons I don't identify myself to local law enforcement when I get to a new town—tends to slow me down more than help me most of the time.”

“I see.” Cas' mind was spinning. Jo was working for the DA. Jo was working for  _Michael_ . And Jo disappeared. And now Michael wanted Cas to report on Dean. Tell him what  _Dean_ had found. No. No. NO!

“Cas? Hey Cas, buddy, you with me?” Dean was looking at Cas with a concerned look on his face, and Cas realized he must have let his emotions show on his face.

He carefully schooled his features. “That's...  _terrible_ ,” he said.

Dean shrugged. “Yep. Fucking awful. What are you going to do?” He seemed abundantly unconcerned. Cas supposed that the corruption of the world must have been revealed to him at quite an early age for him to be so blasé about it now. “But this means that I can't do what I would normally do in a situation like this.”

“What would you normally do?” Cas asked, curious.

Dean picked up the papers and stared at them helplessly. “Get help. I have no fucking clue what to do with these. And normally I would take them to an expert—a professor, or something—but I have to assume that's what Jo did as well. And I have no way of knowing that the person I go to won't turn out to already be doing work for the DA.”

Cas frowned. “You don't need a professor to read these charts. You just need someone who understands the tides. And, judging from what you're saying, someone who wouldn't be caught dead working with the DA. Am I correct?”

Dean nodded. “Got it in one.”

Cas smiled at him. “Then I have just the man for you.”

Dean quirked one eyebrow. “Oh?”

Cas quirked one of his own back. “Yes. His name is Frank. And believe me, you're going to hate him.”

 


	10. Night Comes On

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“Night Comes On”

Dean didn't know which he was going to hate worse—Frank, when he finally met him, or the smell. He hoped to god it was going to be the smell—he hated to think that there could ever be anything in the whole world worse than that. He didn't know how it was possible that anything in this warehouse could still be smelling this bad—after all, as was apparent from the weathered notices pinned to ancient walls, the last time this place was operational the minimum wage had been $3.35 an hour. And yet, the whole place still  _reeked_ of rotting fish.

“Did they leave the last catch sitting on the floor, or what?” Dean asked, trying his hardest to breath through his mouth.

“Something like that,” Cas answered, seemingly unaffected. “From what I hear there was a strike over unsafe working conditions and the entire crew walked out. Well, all except for Frank, that is.”

Dean could hear an untold story there, and normally would be pressing for the details (not because it related to the case, but just because he found people's stories to be endlessly fascinating—it was what had kept him interested in detective work all these years, after all), but he couldn't shake a sense of urgency about this case, and just wanted to get some answers. They passed through a series of doors, each step bringing them further into the darkness (and the  _smell_ ), and if Dean was with anyone else he would have been afraid he was being led into a trap. But not with Cas.

Not with Cas.

A part of his brain tried to tell him that it was ridiculous to have this much trust in someone this soon.  _Just because you let them suck your dick doesn't mean they're trustworthy_ , a small, unpleasant voice whispered in his ear, but another voice told it to  _shut the fuck up already. I trust Cas. End of story_ .

Dean was pulled from his inner bitchfight by their arrival at what appeared to be the end of the line: a a low steel door, heavily reinforced with bolts and plating. It looked like it could survive an attack by a tank. Cas rapped on it with his knuckles a few times, paused, and then rapped again, twice.

_“_ Shave and a Haircut?” Dean asked incredulously.

Cas shrugged. After a moment Dean heard a voice from the other side say, “Who is it?” and Cas answered, “Frank: it's me, Cas.”

There's a long pause, and then the voice said, “Who is that with you?”

“The man I told you about. His name is Dean.” Cas' voice was patient.

Another pause, and then the voice spoke again. “Why isn't he answering himself?”

Suddenly Dean had had enough. “Hey!” He barked. “We're here to see the wizard; open the fuck up.”

Cas looked at him in confusion, and had just opened his mouth to say something when there was the sound of metal squealing and groaning, and above their heads an exhaust fan kicked on and magically sucked the putrid smell away from them. Then the door opened and Dean was staring at a heavy set man who appeared to be his late 50s, with a grumpy expression on his face and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. The man glared first at Dean, and then at Cas.

“Scarecrow. Tin Man. What can I do for you?”

Dean saw Cas' brow furrow in confusion, and he quickly spoke up. “Cas here says you can help me read some tidal charts.”

The man (Frank, Dean assumes), glared at Dean for a second before saying, “First you don't you say anything, then you talk too much.” He moved to shut the door, but Cas stopped him with a few words..

“May I have your help, Frank? Please?”

Cas' tone was not one of a supplicant; on the contrary it was rather matter of fact, like he was reciting a spell. Frank blinked owlishly at him, and then a change came over his face. “Of course, Cas. Anything for you. Come in.”

Dean gave Cas a  _what the fuck?_ look but didn't say anything as they followed Frank back into his what, for want of a better word, Dean found himself thinking of as a _lair._ Once inside Dean saw that they were in some kind of round metal room that stretched up at least a hundred feet to the sky. He looked up and realized that they were in some kind of an enormous smokestack or something, and that the top of the smokestack—or whatever it was—must have been covered in glass or clear plastic, because while there was light coming in, there was no breeze. He looked back to see that Cas had already handed the charts to Frank, who was flipping through them quickly.

“Yeah, I can work with these.”

“How long?” Cas asked him.

Frank tilted his head and screwed up his eyes in what Dean hoped was a thoughtful look, and not the beginnings of a seizure. “Two days. Maybe three.”

“Thank you, Frank.”

Frank grunted and glared at Dean, who ground out, “Thank you, Frank,” as well. Frank smirked then turned his back on them.

“I'm sure you boys can find your own way out.”

As soon as Cas and Dean were through the ridiculous door the fan shut off, letting the stench rush back in on them so fast Dean had to fight the urge to gag. “Son of a  _bitch_ ,” he said, his hand pressed to his mouth. Cas merely took him by the elbow and led him outside, where Dean took a grateful gulp of fresh air. When he could speak again he turned to Cas and said, “So I heard you ask him how long, but not how much. How much is he going to charge me for all that?”

Cas smiled at him. “Nothing. Frank owed me a favor. I cashed it in.”

Dean wondered what Cas had done for the prickly Frank, but thought that was a question to be asked later. Right now he just wanted to get closer to that smile. “So I guess now I owe you, huh?” he said, stepping up into Cas' personal space and speaking the words across Cas' lips to show that he was only teasing. “How much are you going to charge me?”

He heard Cas' breath hitch, and felt smug knowing that he was doing that. “What makes you think you could afford me?” Cas murmured back, and now it was Dean's turn to feel his breath hitch.  _Shit_ . Cas brushed his lips across Dean's and kept moving along his jaw, and Dean should have been embarrassed by the needy whine that slipped out, but all he could think of was  _I am so wonderfully, epically, screwed_ before he felt Cas' teeth bite down gently on his earlobe.

“ _Cas,_ ” he breathed out, pleading, and then Cas took pity on him and brought his lips back to Dean's, and Dean fell into the kiss like it had been years, and not hours, since they had done this before. When he pulled back to catch his breath he saw that Cas' eyes were open, and that the expression in them was pure delight.

_I did that_ , he thought again. He leaned in, intent on kissing Cas senseless, when he felt Cas put his hands on his chest to stop him. “Dean,” Cas said regretfully, “I need to work this afternoon. I have some commitments I cannot break.” And then Cas moved his hands from where they were placed in the center of Dean's chest to the side, and his fingers slid over Dean's nipples. Even through Dean's shirt the sensitive little nubs rose up to meet Cas' fingers, and Dean bit back a moan. Cas however, didn't bite back his own, and Dean closed his eyes as he heard Cas make absolutely sinful sounds while toying with Dean's chest. It was all his dick needed to perk up and say  _Excellent! Are we carrying on, then?_

Dean opened his eyes and told his dick, yet again, to calm the fuck down. “Cas,” he said, and he was proud that his voice sounded steadier than he felt, “I'm kind of getting mixed signals here.”

Cas seemed to snap out of his reverie then, and  _god damn it all_ , blush again as he withdrew his hands. “Apologies,” he said. “I just really wish I was inside of you again.”

Oh  _hell_ no. Cas did not get to deliver that line, in that  _voice_ , and get away with it. Dean literally  _growled_ as he surged forward, and the kiss he gave Cas was definitely not fit for public consumption. In fact, Dean was about two seconds from bending Cas over the nearest flat surface. Or being bent over himself. At this point he didn't really care either way. Luckily for the eyes of the good people of Oakland, however, Cas' cell phone chose just that moment to ring. Not only that, but the song that came out of it was Lady Gaga's “Boy, Boys, Boys.” Moment effectively ruined.

Cas flushed in a completely different way than Dean had made him blush (and when had Dean started knowing Cas so well he could catalog his  _blushes_ , Dean wondered), and then said “Claire,” in a long suffering kind of explanation. He answered his phone with a calm “Hello, Claire,” though, and Dean noted to himself that Cas was able to keep his annoyance, his arousal, and his confusion all out of his tone.  _Poker face phone voice_ , Dean thought to himself.  _Good to know_ .

There was a rush of words on the other end of the line, and Cas wrinkled his brow at whatever he was hearing, his face a picture of concern. “I understand Claire. Yes of course. Two o'clock. Right. Good bye Claire.” When he disconnected the call and looked up at Dean, his face still a picture of concern, Dean prepared himself to hear some sort of bad news. Amelia was hurt, Claire was suspended—anything but the next few words that came out of Cas' mouth. “Claire needs cupcakes.”

Dean stared at Cas for a moment, and then realized that his mouth was hanging open. “What?” he finally said, intelligently (he hoped).

Cas sighed. “Claire was supposed to bring cupcakes to her Geography class as part of a group project. Apparently she and Amelia had a fight this morning and Claire was so upset she left the cupcakes on the kitchen counter. She asked me to bring them to her.”

“Let me guess: if she doesn't bring the cupcakes in, she'll fail the class.”

Cas sighed again. “Yes. I don't know why school is so difficult for Claire. She really is a very intelligent girl.”

Dean thought of his own high school years—at least twelve different high schools, he had lost count at the end—and remembered some of his teachers saying the exact same thing to him. He didn't have any better answer now than he did then. “Because sometimes it just is.” He looked at the worry that was crossing Cas' face, and remembering what he had said about having commitments he couldn't break that afternoon he made a snap decision.

“I can bring Claire the cupcakes.”

Cas looked shocked. And then hesitant. And then hopeful. And then embarrassed. And then resigned. Dean was hard pressed not to laugh, and in fact some of that must have come through on his face because Cas frowned ( _worry_ being the next emotion to cross his face) and said, “What?”

Dean smiled. “Nothing. It's just that I don't think I've ever seen that many emotions cross someone's face in such a short time before.”

Cas looked surprised (emotion #7), and said, “Most people tell me I don't display any emotions at all.  _Claire_ certainly tells me that often enough.”

“Obviously, then, most people aren't paying attention. I find you to be  _very_ expressive. Especially when you're shouting out my name.”

Cas smiled a pleased little smile (Emotion #8, Dean thought), and said, “Be that as it may, there is no way I could ask you to do this for me.”

“I know. That's why I didn't let you ask; I offered.” Cas opened his mouth to protest and Dean stopped him with a raised hand. “I need some time to organize all of this new information in my head. And I do my best thinking while I'm driving. So I might as well do something useful while I'm out wasting our precious natural resources, right? Besides, if I'm lucky, I'll get a cupcake out of it.”

Cas looked like he was wavering, and Dean pressed his advantage. “Look, I'm probably saving  _hundreds_ of dollars not having to rent a hotel room—let me do this for you, okay?”

Cas sighed. “Okay. Yes. And thank you. I really do need make this practice—I'm sure Matt has changed all the set lists: he's probably fallen in love with DIOYY again.”

Dean smiled. “Yeah,  _no_ idea what you're talking about babe, but it's cool. Just give me the addresses and I'll go play Captain Cupcake.”

Cas gave him a look that Dean could only describe as  _fond_ , and that look, more than all of the passionate gazes they had exchanged in the last 48 hours, made Dean's heart flop over and lie still. “Band practice. Matt is the lead singer, and—”

“Wait a minute, I don't think I really caught that before: you're in a  _band_ ? Holy shit, can you possibly get any hotter? What kind of band?”

Cas preened a little bit, and said, “Alternative?” as if asking for Dean's approval. And then he added, “Most musicians around here are in some sort of band, Dean—you have to wear a lot of different hats to make a living with music.”

Dean heard Cas' words, but he was still stuck on the idea of Cas playing in a band. “Do you wear guy liner?” he asked, trying his hardest to keep his face expressionless.

Cas frowned. “No.”

Dean pouted. “What if I asked you nicely?”

Cas laughed. “I have a feeling that if you asked nicely enough I would wear just about anything for you, Dean.”

Dean knew that he hadn't been able to stop the look on his face that came from picturing Cas in a pair of pink satin panties, and groaned when Cas laughed yet again. He thought back to Claire telling him how long it had been since Cas had really laughed, and felt his chagrin at being caught out fantasizing evaporate into pride. He made Cas happy.

“You better give me those addresses now—and directions—before I take you home and hold you to that promise,” Dean said gruffly, pulling out his notebook.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said, giving him a coyly submissive look from underneath his eyelashes.  
“Fuck,” Dean ground out, and Cas smirked. He did, however, give Dean the addresses, even if he let his fingers slide over Dean's as he took the notebook from him to write them down.

“I'll be busking until two, and then practicing after that. Our set isn't until eleven tonight, though, so maybe we can meet for dinner beforehand. If you like.”

Cas mumbled the last part, and Dean wanted to reach out and hug him; fuck, but the guy was just too adorable for his own good.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Dean asked.

“Would you say yes?”

“I've had my tongue in your ass—I think that pretty much makes me a sure thing,” Dean shot back, and was rewarded by the sight of Cas blushing to the roots of his hair.

“I quite enjoyed that, you know,” Cas said, his eyes not quite meeting Dean's.

“Yeah, I got that from the 'oh god, yes, please don't stop'.” Dean smiled at Cas affectionately to show that he was just teasing, but Cas still looked up at him and scowled.

“You're kind of a dick, you know that, right?”

“Yep.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, for no other reason than to stop himself from surging forward and kissing the scowl right off of Cas' face. “So you'll call me when you're free for dinner, then?”

Cas' scowl lightened up—just a little. “Maybe.”

“I'll take that as a yes. And where is your show tonight?”

The scowl disappeared entirely, to be replaced with wariness. “Why? Do you want to come?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, I just about jizzed in my pants when I found out you were in a band—of course I want to come.”

Cas smiled at that, and Dean mentally patted himself on the back for putting Cas' smile back. “It's at Pearl. I'll put your name on the list.”

Dean started to make some smart remark about that, then stopped himself. Pearl. That sounded familiar. He flipped through his notebook and saw that he was right: it was the same club he had been at before—the one where victim number two had last been seen.

“What is it?” Cas asked.

Dean showed him his notes. “That was the last place the second vic was seen.

Cas frowned, and then shook his head. “I'm not sure how much of a clue that is: Pearl is one of the most popular venues in Oakland: they have multiple bands there almost every night. In fact, we're the fourth band on the bill tonight.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, but he wasn't convinced. He just had a gut feeling about the place. “In any case it won't hurt for me to poke around a bit while I'm there. When I'm not ogling the hot guitar player, that is.”

“Bass player.”

“What?”

“Bass player. I play bass in Dante Loves Beatrice.” When Dean looked blank he sighed and added, “That's the name of the band.”

“Nice. But what makes you think I won't be ogling the hot guitar player anyway?”

“Dick.”

“You love it.” Dean leaned forward and gave Cas a quick peck, and then held his hand up to his ear in the “phone” shape and mouthed the words, “Call me” before winking at Cas.

“Maybe.” Cas deadpanned, and Dean turned away with a smile, the only thing stopping him from jumping up and clicking his heels together being the fact that that would have been totally fucking gay.

_And sticking your tongue in another guy's ass isn't?_ A voice that sounded suspiciously like Sam's said.

_Shaddup, Sammy_ , Dean thought, and then, before he could talk himself out of it, pulled out his phone and dialed Sam's number.

“Want to go see a band with me tonight?” Dean said as soon as Sam answered.

“What? Dean, what are you—”

Dean cut him off and said, “I think this club might be a lead.” There was silence on the other end, and Dean said the next words in a rush, before he could chicken out. “And even if it's not, I'd like to buy you a drink. I miss you, Sammy.”

There was a sound on the other end that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and then Sam said, “I miss you, too.” Then there was silence again, and Dean heard Sam drag in a shaky breath and say, “Where and when?”

“Pearl. Eleven o'clock.”

“Right.” Dean could picture Sam writing it down, his ridiculous hair hanging in his face and his tongue peeking out from between his lips like it always did when he was concentrating. “What's the name of the band?”

Dean had to think back. “Oh, um, Dante Loves Beatrice.”

Sam snorted. “I've heard of them—kind of emo, aren't they? Not your usual thing.”

_What the fuck?_ Dean thought.  _Cas, you asshole._ He covered his discomfort with a huff. “Maybe I'm branching out.”

Sam snorted again. “Or maybe there's some hot chick fronting them.”

“It's a lead, Sammy,” Dean said, wondering if it was a mistake to bring Sam in on this. Not only on the lead (which, yeah, the more Dean thought about it, the more he was sure it really was a lead), but also in on the whole thing with him and Cas. It wasn't like Dean had ever hidden his bisexuality from Sam, but then again, he had never really flaunted it, either. He tended to keep his same sex hook ups to times when he was traveling.  _Like now_ , the voice in his head said.  _No,_ _**not** _ _ like now _ , he snapped back at it peevishly.

He realized that Sam had been talking while he was having his inner dialogue. “What was that Sammy?”

“I said I'll see you there, Dean. And... thanks.”

Dean didn't ask what Sam was saying thanks for—he just said, “You're welcome, Sammy,” and then hung up. He took out his notebook and looked at the addresses Cas had written down, smiling a bit at the perfect penmanship.  _ For fuck's sake _ he told himself.  _ Get a grip _ .

 

* * *

 

Dean hadn't been lying when he told Cas he did his best thinking while he was driving. As he drove to Amelia and Claire's apartment to pick up the cupcakes he went over everything he knew about the case so far, including the new information about the tides that he had gotten from Jo's apartment. He swallowed when he thought of Jo, and tried not to think about how long she had been missing now. He wondered if she would be the next victim to wash up, and pictured himself having to go down to the morgue to identify her body. He then mentally punched himself in the face—he hadn't been to the morgue yet. What the fuck was wrong with him? That was usually one of the first things he did on a case like this—he didn't care how many people had looked at the bodies, there was nothing like going over the evidence himself.

He took advantage of being stopped at yet another red light (Jesus, he could see why Cas didn't have a car) to send a quick text to Sam asking to be cleared to visit the morgue this afternoon. Sam texted back almost immediately saying it was done, and Dean whistled in appreciation at the quick work. It was nice to work on the inside, for once.

When Dean got to Amelia and Claire's he left his baby double parked out front while he ran up the stairs, grabbed the key from over the door where Cas had told him it would be (Dean would have to say something to Amelia about that—it was the first place he always looked when he was doing a little job-related B and E) and let himself into their apartment.

He quickly made his way into the kitchen, resiting the urge to snoop only because his baby was still double-parked outside. Sometimes he had to admit to himself that even if he hadn't grown up the way he had he probably still would have ended up being a detective of some sort. He was just naturally nosy. Hell, if he hadn't ended up being arrested fifteen times by the time he was twenty he probably would have ended up working on the  _ other _ side of things. Or maybe even have gone into the service, like his dad had.

Like Cas had.

As if in answer to that thought he caught sight of a picture of Cas on the fridge. He was standing with Amelia and Claire, although the Claire in the picture was certainly younger, still with a little bit of baby fat on her cheeks. They were all dressed up and there was a stage with a grand piano on it behind them. There were other families in the background, and Dean got the impression, mostly from the sheet music Cas was clutching, that it was some kind of piano recital. It was, without a doubt, one of the most uncomfortable pictures Dean had ever seen. Amelia looked like hell, with bags under her eyes big enough to park a Kia in, and Claire looked like she had either been on a three day drunk or had just puked her guts up. Or both. Cas looked... empty. Like the only thing standing there was some kind of meat suit, an empty bag of flesh and blood and other squishy things with nothing at all of substance on the inside. His eyes, which Dean always thought to himself as being  _ electric _ , were dull, the color of a stone on the bottom of a creek. He didn't look anything like the man Dean thought of as  _ his  _ Cas, and while Dean wouldn't expect a family portrait to show the same man who had thrown his head back and practically  _ howled _ Dean's name the night before, he also didn't look like a man who ever smiled softly to himself or chuckled low and dark and dirty under his breath. He looked like some kind of robot. 

Forcing himself to look away from the disturbing picture, Dean looked around the kitchen and spotted the cupcakes, all packaged up in a tupperware container that looked like it was designed especially for that function.  _ What kind of life would you have to live where it made sense to buy something just for carrying cupcakes from one place to another? _ Dean thought in amazement, and then he grabbed it and left. Better not to think about it, probably.

He made it back down to his baby before anyone showed up to ticket him— _ yes!— _ put the cupcakes on the seat next to him and then looked at the directions for how to get from Amelia and Claire's apartment to the school. With the shitty Oakland traffic he figured it would take him about 45 minutes to get there, which was earlier than the 2 pm meeting time Claire had asked for, but fuck it, if she hadn't of left them on the counter she would have had to haul them around all day anyway, so, yeah, she could deal with holding onto them for a while.

By the time he made it to the school his stomach was growling, and he would have  _ totally _ eaten a cupcake except for the fact that when he had opened up the box to do just that he had seen that every cupcake had a different capitol written across the top of it in shaky frosting. Some of them looked okay—Oslo and Paris, for instance, but Reykjavik looked fucking terrible. Dean thought about eating that one just to put it out of its misery (like anyone gave a shit about Iceland, anyway), but didn't. He remembered when Sammy would do projects like this and how upset he would get if anything happened to them on the way to school. God, he had been such a serious kid.

Dean parked in the visitor's lot at Claire's high school and made his way to the office, thankful that he had left his Colt in the trunk after he had to pass through not one, but  _ two  _ metal detectors. He finally made it to the office, set the cupcakes on the counter, and said, “These are for Claire Novak.” He was about to turn and leave when the girl behind the desk said, “So?” and he gave her a good look. She was about Claire's age, but with the kind of looks that made her the Queen of Absolutely Fucking Everything in high school. The kind of looks that Dean knew from experience would fade to average and then a little bit freaky over the next ten years, and Dean couldn't even find it in himself to give her the tiniest of Patented Dean Winchester smiles. He just glared at her and said, “Excuse me?”

The girl looked up at him and her eyes opened a little bit wider. Smiling or not, Dean knew he looked damn good. The girl stammered a bit, and then said, “I'm the office aide. Normally I'd take them to her, but Mary—the secretary—left for lunch, and I can't leave the office unattended, so, um, you could leave them, I guess?”

Dean didn't like the sound of that. “What are my other options?”

The girl looked over her shoulder, like she was afraid of getting caught, and then said, “Well, I could give you a visitor's pass, and you could give them to her yourself. But it's lunch, and you'd have to find her in the cafeteria. And it's kind of big.”

Great. Well, he was the one who showed up early. Maybe Claire had had a good reason for saying 2 pm. “Alrighty,” he said. “I'll take the pass.”

“Really?” the girl said, and Dean wondered what exactly he was getting into. Still, she handed over the pass (a sticker that said “Visitor” on it—so much for “security”—Dean wondered if the metal detectors had even worked), pointed Dean in the direction of the cafeteria, and off he went, cupcakes in hand.

Even without the directions Dean was sure he would have been able to find the cafeteria, the low hum of voices and smell of institutional grease being the two clues even a non-detective would have found hard to avoid. When he turned the corner and actually stepped into said cafeteria, however, any sense of smugness at his detecting skills evaporated immediately.

The place was fucking  _ huge. _

Suddenly he understood why the girl at the desk had been so hesitant: there was no way he was going to be able to find Claire in this  _ throng _ of teenagers. He thought about leaving and coming back at two, but that meant that he would have to put off going to the morgue until  _ after  _ two, probably not until three or even four, actually, and if there was anything that was consistent about morgues around the country it was that they were all staffed with lazy motherfuckers who liked to start kicking people out two hours before closing so that they could slink off and be home by 5:05. 

So it was now or never with the cupcakes. Oh well—one good thing about attending so many different high schools in his youth was that Dean was seriously out of fucks to give when it came to what high school kids thought of him. With that in mind he put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a whistle so piercing that the kids at the table next to him actually dropped their food and put their hands over their ears. In the two seconds of silence Dean knew he had before the voices started up again he barked out a loud, “Anyone know where Claire Novak is?”

There was a low buzz, and then a boy at a nearby table raised his hand nervously and said, “I think she's outside.”

“Yeah, try the stoners' table,” another voice said with a sneer, and Dean sighed inwardly. Of course.

Dean noticed a doorway that looked like it led to some sort of a courtyard and made his way outside, where he saw about a dozen concrete picnic tables scattered around a few pathetic looking planters filled with gray dirt. Most of the tables were empty (it was cold and cloudy out), and the ones that weren't were mostly occupied with couples taking the opportunity to have some serious PDA time. The one table with more than two kids at it was all the way in the far corner, and Dean could tell, even at that distance, that it was the “stoner” table.

Dean had nothing against stoners. Hell, it wasn't like he had ever turned down a joint when it came his way at a concert, and while he preferred alcohol when it came right down to it he wasn't going to be picky. And also he had found that if you really wanted to find an instant welcome at a new school, the stoner table was the best place to start. Stoners didn't care if you were rich, poor, good-looking, ugly, smart, dumb, from a broken home or a member of the fucking Brady Bunch. They only cared if you were holding. And if so, if you were willing to share.

Still, as much as Dean had always appreciated the unconditional acceptance he had found at the stoner table, he knew it wasn't the best place to be in the long term. He knew that after a while you forgot that you were dealing with a group of people with incredibly low expectations—you forgot that being King of the Fuck-Ups meant that you, yourself, were still fucking up. And that was why he was scowling when he finally made his way over to the table and found Claire sitting on one end, laughing so hard she was snorting at something the obviously pleased guy sitting next to her had just said.

He set the cupcakes in front of her with a small thud and said, “Are these going to be safe with you guys, or should I worry about the munchies?”

Claire looked up, startled, and said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Dean glared down at her, and answered back, “What the fuck does it look like I'm doing here? Bringing you your cupcakes. Like you  _ asked _ .”

“I asked Cas.”

“Cas is busy.”

Claire frowned at that. “I told him to bring them at two. What am I supposed to do with them now?”

Dean wanted to smack her upside the head for the way she said that. For the way she implied that somehow  _ Cas _ was the one who had fucked up here. “What would you have done with them if you had brought them yourself? Like you were  _ supposed _ to?”

Claire huffed. “I would have put them in my geography class. With all of the other projects.  _ Before _ school _.” _

“So? Put them there now. You seem to be all finished here.” Dean gestured at the remains of “lunch” that were on the table: an empty bag of Doritos.

“We're not allowed to be in the hallways during lunch without a parent or a teacher.” Claire gave him a look that clearly said,  _ Ha! Beat  _ _**that** _ _! _

Dean just rolled his eyes and said, “I'll walk you.”

“Are you a parent?” Claire asked, her tone both defiant and curious.

“God, I hope not,” Dean said. Then he added, “I've always been a 'wrap it before you tap it,' kind of a guy.” Then, because he was a dick, he winked.

Claire blushed, and Dean felt kind of bad. She was only a kid, after all. But then she quickly stood up, grabbed the cupcakes, and said, “Let's go, asshole,” and Dean didn't feel quite so bad anymore.

He followed her through the maze of hallways until they got to a room on the second floor. Judging from the fact that the walls were entirely covered in maps, Dean took it to be a geography classroom. He expected her to set the cupcakes down and leave immediately to return to the stoner table, and so was surprised when instead she opened up the box and looked inside.

“They're all there,” he said, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited in the doorway.

“They had better be. My mom worked hard on these.”

“I'm sure your mom will get an 'A'.”

“Probably.” Claire looked at something in the box and frowned. “What the hell is this?”

Dean moved forward so he could look into the box as well. Claire was pointing at the “Reykjavik” cupcake. “Reykjavik, I think,” he said.

Claire shook her head and pulled the cupcake out of the box. “Fuck Iceland,” she said, peeling the paper off of the cake and looking up at Dean. She seemed to consider it for a moment, and then split the cupcake in half with her fingers and offered some to Dean. “Thanks for bringing these, by the way.”

Dean took the cupcake. “You're welcome,” he said, and took a bite before asking, “Don't you need this one for your project, though?”

Claire looked a little appalled at the crumbs spraying from Dean's mouth, but answered anyway. “The assignment was to do something that related to Europe. I'll just argue that this was supposed to be a  _ physical _ geography project, and that Iceland is really only  _ politically _ a part of Europe.”

Dean grinned at her.

“What?” she asked.

“I knew you were smarter than you were letting on.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck  _ you _ .”

Then they were grinning at each other, and Claire rolled her eyes. “You're a pretty hard guy to hate.”

“That's because I'm  _ adorable _ .”

Claire rolled her eyes again, and said, “Whatever. What's a guy like you doing with a guy like Cas?”

Dean frowned at that. “What do you mean? Cas is great.”

Claire looked at Dean pointedly. “He's boring. He's like some kind of a robot or something.”

Dean thought back to the picture he had seen on Amelia's fridge, and saw Claire's point.  _ That  _ Cas wasn't the Cas he knew. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, his hip gently pushing a Lego map of Europe out of the way. “Were you like this when he met you?”

“Like what?”

“Like  _ this _ . An angry, pissed off, smart-as-hell teenage girl.”

“Angry and pissed off mean the same thing.”

Claire balled up the empty cupcake wrapper and tossed it toward the trash can next to the teacher's desk. It missed by a mile. “Nice shot, Kobe,” Dean said, as he walked over to pick up the wrapper. “And you know what I mean.”

“My  _ dad _ had just died. And then this guy shows up and says it's all his fault, and he's so sorry, and he's going to take care of us, and, well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway? I mean, is he my new dad, is he going to  _ marry _ my mom, is he going to walk me down the fucking aisle someday? And what does he mean it was  _ all his fault, what did he fucking do? _ I just—yeah, I was pissed.”

Dean tosses the wrapper to her and watches as she catches it absent-absentmindedly. “Mulligan,” he says.

“What?”

“Mulligan. It's what they say in golf when you get a do over. Mulligan—take another shot.”

“You play  _ golf? _ ”

Now it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. “Take your shot.” Claire threw the wrapper again, and missed again, but this time not by as much. Dean walked over to pick it up. “Did you ever stop and think that maybe Cas is shit scared of you? Pissed off teenage girls are pretty fucking scary, especially to someone with no prior experience.” He tossed the wrapper back to her again. “And maybe he didn't know what he was going to do, either. Because, no, he's  _ not _ going to marry your mom, because,” and here he makes some vague gesture that is supposed to encompass him, and Cas, together, “alright? And maybe he said it was all his fault because, trust me, when you lose someone that you lo—that you  _ care _ about, it  _ always _ feels like it's all your fault. Every fucking time.” His voice breaks a little at the end, and it's all he can do not to picture Jo's face in front of him right now, instead of Claire's. He cleared his throat. “Mulligan.”

Claire glared at him, glared at the wrapper in her hand, and then darted forward, toward Dean. He froze, and then she was right in front of him, popping up on her toes, leaving the floor, until she lifted the wrapper with both hands and shot it over Dean's head. Dean turned in time to see it land in the very middle of the waste basket. “Two points, bitch,” Claire said.

Dean turned back and smiled at her. “Nothin' but net.” He looked down at her, and was heartened to see that she was smiling back. “We good here?”

“We're good.” Dean turned to leave, but Claire stopped him with a hand on his arm. “And thanks again. For everything”

Dean didn't know why he did it, but he wrapped his arms around Claire and gave her a quick hug. “You're welcome again. For everything.”

 

* * *

_ No one,  _ Dean thinks,  _ should be this happy when driving to the morgue _ , but he can't help it. He found himself thinking of that sweet move Claire made when she posted up over his head, and wondered what it would be like playing a little street ball with her. Maybe Dean and Claire against Amelia and Cas. No, that wouldn't be fair—against  _ Sam _ and Cas. Before he knew what he was doing he was fantasizing the whole scenario in his head: they were all at a park, it was summer, maybe there was a grill, afterwards he and Cas would sneak off to make out on a blanket somewhere, and maybe Cas would fall asleep at Dean's side as Dean held his hand over Cas' eyes, shielding him from the sun until the rest of them came to find them and tell them it was time to go.

He shook his head as he pulled up to the morgue where, miracle of miracles, there was a parking space right out front. What the hell was the matter with him? He wouldn't be here come summer—he didn't know  _ where _ the hell he would be. Probably some cheap roadside motel, tracking down yet another deadbeat dad.

As he stepped out of the car the gray skies over him opened up, and he flipped his collar up to try and save himself from a complete soaking as he sprinted for the entrance. Yeah, this was most definitely  _ not  _ summer time. And he was never going to be at anyone's family picnic.

When he went to the front desk his voice was gruff as he snapped his name at the receptionist, which was probably for the best, as nothing stood out more than a cheerful guy at a morgue. He was given his ID badge and ushered into the back, where a bored assistant coroner directed him to where the bodies were stored and then left him to it. He pulled out the first body, snapped on a pair of gloves, and got busy.

He did the usual check—underneath the fingernails for blood or tissue, the eyes and neck for signs of strangulation, between the fingers and toes for unexplained track marks. And then, even though he knew it was foolish, because these bodies had been in the water, he rummaged around the office until he found the UV light that all coroners kept and shined the light up and down the bodies, looking for semen stains. Not too surprisingly, none showed up.

He had moved to put the light away, clicking it off as he turned around, when he caught a flash out of the corner of one eye. Turning the light back on he looked at the girls again. And that's when he saw it: a stamp, on the back of each girl's left hand. He turned off the light again and it disappeared.

Huh. UV ink. Turning the light on one more time he moved in for a closer look, but the ink was too degraded to make out. Still, he pulled out his phone and took pictures with one hand while holding the light with the other before he finally returned the light to where he had found it.

He then moved on to the evidence lockers. Each girl had a separate locker with a number that corresponded to the number on her toe tag. On the front of each locker was a logbook keeping track of everyone who had examined the evidence within—in this case, the only evidence being the clothes the victims had been found in. He was about to be impressed with the organizational abilities of the Bay area coroner's office when he opened the first one and stepped back, hand to his nose. Shit. They had stored the clothes still wet.

Dean extracted the clothing as carefully as he could from the plastic bags they had been (kind of) sealed in, but they started to fall apart as soon and he gave them the slightest pull. He looked at the hopeless piece of fabric in his hand and sighed before laying it out as best he could and snapping another picture. It was clear that it used to be a t-shirt, and it was also clear that the t-shirt used to have something printed across the front of it, but what it said, and whether it was important, Dean couldn't tell anymore. He sighed and shoved the whole mess back into the bag it had come from. As he opened the notebook to sign the evidence log he was stunned to see Jo's sloppy handwriting already there. He looked at the date and saw that she had visited the morgue the day after the third body had been found. Which meant that she had probably gotten to see the clothes before they had fallen apart. Funny—he didn't remember anything about that in the file he had been given. He wondered if there was even more hidden back in the wreck of her apartment. Still thinking about that, he left the morgue and drove to a nearby Kinko's so he could print the pictures he had taken with his phone.

He was tempted to go to the Square to see if Cas was busking right now, but decided that he really needed to work on his evidence board instead. After all, he told himself, he was seeing Cas tonight. He wasn't a twelve year old girl. He could wait. He could wait just fine.

Sure he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIOYY--Does It Offend You, Yeah? (great band--check 'em out)


	11. Closing Time"

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“Closing Time”

 

Meanwhile, Cas was also comparing himself to a twelve-year-old girl—that was the only possible explanation he could come up with to explain why he found his band mates' antics so very, _very_ aggravating.

He should be used to this, he told himself. He should be used to Jeremy showing up for practice two hours late, if at all. He should be used to Devin telling everyone they  _ fucking sucked _ . He should be used to sometimes having to physically restrain Matt and Shelley from attacking each other. Or fucking each other. Or doing whichever of the two they were currently doing at that stage in their “relationship.” He should be used to all of it, in fact had put up with it for a while now because the band actually made money with their weekly gigs at Pearl, money that was steady and dependable—unlike busking—and money that Cas counted on to pay his rent. What he wasn't used to was having something of his own to look forward to after they got through with practice. What he wasn't used to was having any sort of life of his own that their childish antics could interfere with. And clearly, they weren't used to it, either.

At least not judging from the looks on their faces after he had bellowed (yes, he had to admit it,  _ bellowed _ ) at them.

“ _ Enough _ !” he had snapped, long past annoyed at their non-stop bickering.

As soon as it had happened they had all stopped and stared at him in shock. And, he had been pleased to note, not a little bit of fear. The fear was almost certainly due to the time he had jumped into the middle of a mosh pit and rescued a girl from a pair of douchebags who seemed to think that  _ mosh _ was synonymous with  _ punch _ . It wasn't really surprising that after that incident (and the way he had calmly dispatched both douchebags and been back on stage and playing before the end of the verse), none of them really wanted to piss him off. So when the next thing he said was, “The rest of you can spend the next six hours arguing, but I, for one, have a date, and would like to get out of here sometime tonight,” they all shut up and listened.

Shelley was the first to break the silence. “Wow, Cas, that's great. Are, um, they coming to the show tonight?”

Cas felt himself calm down, and even smile a little bit at Shelley's choice of pronoun. He knew he was something of an enigma to his band mates. He usually liked to keep it that way. But there was something about Dean that just made Cas want to show him off. He knew it was petty of him, but he just wanted his band mates to see how hot Dean was, and realize that he, Cas, was the one that Dean chose. It was embarrassing, and it was every bit as childish as he always accused them of being, but goddammit, it was his turn. For once. So he answered Shelley's question honestly.

“Yes. Yes he is. And I'd really appreciate it if when he got there we didn't  _ suck _ .”

If Cas hadn't thought their faces could get any more shocked, he was wrong. But that didn't really matter: what mattered was that they actually  _ listened  _ to him, and the rest of the practice went surprisingly smoothly. There wasn't even any arguing between Jeremy and Matt over the set list, which was an absolute miracle in and of itself. 

He left the practice space happily after that, not even bothering with his usual admonishment to Matt to be careful loading his bass into the van, and called Dean as soon as he was out on the street. Dean picked up on the first ring.

“Hey Cas,” he said, and Cas felt himself smile before he answered.

“Hello, Dean.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Dean spoke, his voice so low that Cas felt himself swallow convulsively. “So, uh, you ready to eat something?”

Cas tried to push away the image that flashed into his head of him dropping to his knees and swallowing Dean down to the root, and instead said, “I would like that.”

There was another pause, and then he heard Dean huff out a laugh and say, “Fuck, Cas, anyone ever tell you you could make a good living doing phone sex? I think I could come just from the sound of your voice.”

Cas ducked into the nearest alley to hide the erection that had immediately sprung to life at Dean's words. “ _ Dean _ ,” he said, his voice low and pleading, “I'm in public.”

Dean laughed again, but there was an edge of desperation to it. “Jesus. How are we going to have dinner together if we can't even talk on the phone without wanting to jump each other's bones?”

Cas laughed back, and it was such a calming feeling that he immediately felt himself settling down to a point where he could be in public again. “Well, we'll have to manage it. Because I'm starving.”

“Me, too,” Dean replied, and Cas noticed that his voice had lost the desperate edge. “Okay, where are we meeting?”

Cas had put a lot of thought into this. He wanted some place that was nice without seeming too first date cheesy. He didn't want it to seem like he was trying too hard. And yet, he wasn't sure how comfortable Dean was with being affectionate with another man out in public. He would hate to go to some sports bar only to have Dean stare at the TV and try to talk to him about “the game.” In the end he decided on the place he usually ended up eating. When he told Dean the name he was surprised to find that he already knew where it was.

“You want to eat at a grocery store?”

“They have a few tables in the back. Magda always cooks a few dishes to serve out of the deli, and I've never been disappointed, but if you'd like to go somewhere else—”

“No, no, that's fine. I'll meet you there. Ten minutes okay?”

“That should be perfect.”

And then Cas hung up. After he did it he realized that he had just done the thing that Gabriel always complained about—hanging up without saying goodbye. He hoped Dean wasn't upset. When Dean arrived, though, he didn't seem upset, even though his cheeks were a little flushed.

“What is it?” Cas asked him. He felt his heart clench when Dean ducked his head adorably before sitting down.

“Nothing,” Dean said, his flush getting deeper. “I just don't think I've ever eaten dinner at a place where I've bought lube before.”

“Oh.”  _ Oh _ . Cas was about to suggest again they go some place else when Magda bustled out of the back, saw Dean sitting with Cas, and  _ beamed _ . She walked over to the two of them and smiled at Cas beatifically before turning to Dean with a knowing smile and saying, “I take it your date went well?”

Dean's face looked impassive, but Cas could see the small wrinkles around the corners of his eyes that meant he was about to laugh. “How do you know this isn't a different date?” he asked Magda, and Cas was impressed—and a little scared on Dean's behalf.

Magda, however, merely threw back her head and laughed before clapping Cas on the shoulder. “I like him,” she said, and then turned and marched back to where she had come from.

“Do we order?” Dean asked Cas, and Cas shook his head.

“Not if you know what's good for you. Magda likes to decide what you'll be eating.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and Cas was pleased that he was okay with the arrangement. There was only a moment before Magda appeared again with two short glasses filled with what looked to be red wine.

“Last year's grapes,” she said. “Very nice.” And then she was gone and back again, this time carrying a small round loaf of brown bread wrapped in a napkin and a ramekin full of what looked to be fresh butter. The bread steamed on the table in front of them, and she added, “Be careful—it's still warm,” before retreating to the back again.

Suddenly music started to play—hearing the intro, Cas could tell it was going to be Dean Martin.

“Should I expect us to share one plate of spaghetti next?” Dean asked with a smirk.

Cas put his head in his hands and groaned. “Sorry. I didn't realize Magda would be so...”

“So what? Happy for you? Cas, it's okay. It's nice to see that you have people in your life that care about you.” Dean smiled and took a sip of the wine, his eyebrows flying into his hairline. “Jesus, that'll do.”

Cas took a sip of his own, and coughed. “I didn't even  _ know _ they made wine that strong.” They both reached for the bread at the same time, and Cas let Dean tear off two pieces, handing one to Cas. Their fingers touched, and Cas had to close his eyes briefly at the way the feeling shot straight to his dick. He opened his eyes again to find that Dean was staring at him intently, his pupils almost black with desire. Cas licked his lips, and Dean's gaze dropped to them with a look that could only be described as sinful. Cas heard himself whimper, and Dean groaned before sitting back and running his fingers through his hair.

“ _ Jesus _ ,” Dean said, and grabbed his wine and tossed the entire glass back like it was a shot of whisky. He cleared his throat then and said, his voice clearly striving for normalcy, “I got the cupcakes to Claire okay.”

Cas just stared at him blankly for a second, his brain waiting for an urgent delivery of blood from downstairs before it attempted anything as complicated as speech. Finally the much needed blood arrived, and he was able to say, “Ah?” He felt like he deserved some kind of prize just for that.

“Yeah,” Dean said, leaning back and smearing his bread with at least half of the butter. “I like her. She's a good kid.”

That snapped Cas out of his stupor. “She was  _ nice _ to you?” he asked in shock.

Dean snorted. “Hell, no. She was a pissy little bitch.” He shrugged. “I dunno. Reminded me of myself at that age.”

“You were a pissy little bitch?”

Dean smiled at him, slow and sexy. “Nah, that was Sammy I was an 'angry young man'.”

Cas smiled back at him, and took a—very small—sip of his wine. He loved hearing the way Dean said his brother's name, with affection and love. He wondered what it would feel like to hear him say his own name the same way. No, that wasn't true—he didn't wonder at all. He knew what it would feel like: it would feel amazing.

“Tell me about Sam.” Cas reached out and poured half of his remaining wine into Dean's glass, shrugging at Dean's raised eyebrow. “I have to work tonight,” he explained.

Dean seemed to accept that, because he took a small sip and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, hands steepled together. “Sammy was great. He was just this big, goofy kid that always wanted to to do the right thing, always wanted to help people. I can't count the number of times he brought back some stray to our motel room—four-legged  _ and  _ two-legged. Even though a couple of times it ended up biting him in the ass.”

Cas leaned forward as well, also placing his elbows on the table, and ran the tip of one finger down the edge of Dean's entwined hands. Dean smiled and moved his foot forward so that it was resting alongside Cas' ankle, and Cas fought down the urge to laugh in sheer happiness. He couldn't believe he was here, now, doing this, with this beautiful, charming, wonderful,  _ kind _ man. There was nothing in his entire life that had prepared him for just how  _ right _ this moment felt. He asked Dean another question, more to hear the deep rumble of his voice than to know the answer.

“Biting him in the ass?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. There was this one time he brought a stray dog back, and in the time it took Sammy to go beg some dog food the damn dog had eaten  _ everything _ in the room. And I mean  _ everything _ . Food, pillows, books. The damn thing even ate a bottle of gun oil—which it then puked back up. Everywhere. Luckily my dad had prepaid the room for a month, and so Sammy and me were able to fix everything back up—mostly. I'm sure there's still an innkeeper in South Texas who has no love for the Winchester family, though.”

“And the two-legged strays? Did they ever 'bite him in the ass' as well?”

Cas had asked the question with a smile, hoping for the same kind of amusing anecdote Dean had just given him. He was dismayed, then, when he saw Dean physically close up at the question, pulling back to lean away at the same time he tucked his feet underneath him.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice lacking the warmth it had just possessed. “They did.”

Cas leaned forward farther, his body helpless to resist chasing Dean's across the table, and reached out his hand. “Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

Dean looked at Cas' hand for a second, and then seemed to come to a decision, because he leaned forward again and clasped Cas' hand between both of his own. “No, you're good, man. I was just—there was this one time. I was just remembering—” He struggled, obviously trying to find the words. Cas stayed silent, letting him find them. “So, yeah, this one time Sammy brought this hooker in to spend the night out of the rain. It was in Florida, and when it rains there it  _ really  _ rains. So anyway, in the morning she—and all of our cash—was gone. My dad had just given us that money—it was supposed to buy groceries for the next week or two. Man, I was so scared.”

Cas saw that Dean was lost in the memory, and he reached his other hand across the table so that it was on top of Dean's. To anyone watching it must have looked like they were about to wrestle.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

Cas resisted the urge to suck in his breath. “What did you do?” he asked softly.

Dean gazed at their hands, and said, “I did what I had to do.” His voice was robotic. Cas had heard that tone before, in the voices of his fellow soldiers who had just returned from some particularly gruesome mission. The kinds that involved family compounds, and screaming women, and children crying out for parents that were never going to wake up. The kind that saved lives, but cost lives as well.

“Dean,” he said, and he tried to infuse that one word with how much he understood what Dean was saying. Dean seemed to hear it, because he went on.

“That was the first time I ever let somebody—that's why I don't usually let guys...”

His words trailed off, but Cas heard what he didn't say. “Thank you,” he said, and Dean looked up, and Cas thought that he saw relief in Dean's eyes. Relief, and understanding, and  _ love _ . He wanted to pull Dean into his arms at that moment, press his lips to his and see if he could taste those same feelings on Dean's lips, but just as he leaned forward Magda came out from the back carrying two plates practically groaning under the weight of all the food piled on them. They were forced to release each other's hands as she set the plates in front of them, and Cas couldn't help but chuckle at the rapt expression on Dean's face as he gazed down at the food.

“Is that...meat loaf?” he asked hopefully.

Magda smiled. “My own special recipe. And mashed potatoes, lima beans, and greens.  _ Which _ I expect you to eat,” she said sternly, looking at Dean. “Don't think I can't just look at you and see that you haven't eaten a vegetable willingly in the last year.”

Dean opened his mouth, seemingly to argue, but Magda stopped him with an upraised palm. “French fries and onion rings don't count.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean said with a grin.

Magda nodded once and left. Dean took a bite of his meatloaf and made a noise that was practically pornographic, moaning around the food in his mouth and rolling his eyes back in apparent ecstasy. The moment went on for a  _ long _ time.

“Should I be jealous?” Cas finally asked.

Dean swallowed the food in his mouth and gave Cas a cheeky grin. “Only if I start shouting out 'Meatloaf! Meatloaf!' in bed.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

The rest of the meal passed with Cas and Dean making their way steadily through their plates and chatting on subjects that were of a decidedly less intense nature. Dean told Cas about a diner he visited in Indiana that sold nothing but different versions of hot dish, and Cas told Dean about the time at seminary when Father Martin decided that all meat could simply be swapped out for lentils at a one to one ratio. His story of their “BBQ”—and the resulting mess the lentils had made of the grill—had Dean laughing so hard that he made an adorable little squeaking noise, and Cas decided that he would make it his personal mission from now on to make Dean make those sounds as often as possible.

After the meal ended, and Dean and Cas had both been smothered in one of Magda's hugs, and after Cas had finally convinced Dean that there was no way he was going to be able to  _ pay _ Magda for their meals, since Cas ran a tab at the store and the dinner had already been added to it (or not—Cas had his suspicions that this would be one of the many times Magda simply “forgot” to charge him), they found themselves out on the sidewalk in front of the store. Cas noticed that the sign on the front of the shop was already switched from “Open” to “Closed,” and when he glanced down at his watch he was surprised to see how late it was already.

“Damn,” he said. “I've got to go.”

“Should I come with you now?” Dean asked.

“That depends. How much do you like Angry White Girl rap?”

Dean raised one eyebrow. “Um—not at all?”

Cas chuckled. “Then I would wait a bit if I were you. That's the act on right before us. I have to be there to help set up the equipment—there's no reason for both of us to suffer.”

“My martyr.” Dean smiled as he said the words and pulled Cas close, his fingers taking Cas' chin and tilting it up. Cas felt Dean's lips ghost across his own in a sweet kiss, and he reached up and put his hand on the side of Dean's neck, reveling in the warmth beneath his fingertips. He felt Dean's pulse jump under his hand, and then the kiss deepened, and Cas made a breathy moaning sound against Dean's lips.

The next thing he knew Dean had pushed him up against the wall next to Magda's door, into a tiny corner that was hidden by the now empty newspaper racks. He felt Dean's hands slide down his sides, over his hips until they were just beneath his ass, and then Dean's fingers dug into his skin as he lifted Cas up onto his toes so he could pull him against him. Cas lifted one leg up so that he was squeezing Dean between his legs, their groins pressed together so tightly that Cas could clearly feel the hard outline of Dean's cock pressed alongside his.

His was just as hard, and he made a small whimpering noise when Dean started to rock his hips slowly and rhythmically into his own.

“God, Cas, I want you right here. What are you doing to me?” Dean said, his mouth hot and wet against Cas' ear.

Cas was incapable of forming any coherent words in reply, and instead grabbed the short hair on the back of Dean's head and yanked backwards so that he could get to Dean's throat, where he immediately set about sucking a large bruise just above Dean's Adam's apple.

“Oh. Cas.” Dean made a choked off sound and abruptly pulled back, his hands on Cas' shoulders to hold him firmly away from him.

Cas growled low in his throat and lifted his hands up to pull Dean's away so that he could press up against him again, but stopped when he saw the way Dean bit down on his lip and shook his head. “Cas, I swear to god, if you don't stop right now I'm going to come in my pants.”

Cas dropped his hands and leaned back, giving Dean a minute to compose himself. Not that he was any less in need of one, he thought to himself, feeling his own rock hard erection pushing against the confines of his jeans. Still, he had to admit to feeling a certain amount of pride at Dean's words:  _ he  _ had done that to Dean.

His thoughts must have been on his face, because Dean shook his head and said, “You smug bastard,” in a tone that was completely at odds with his harsh words before he lunged forward, pressed a brief kiss to Cas' lips, and said, “See you at the show.” He abruptly spun on his heels and walked away—albeit a little stiffly. Cas leaned back against the wall behind him and watched Dean as he walked down the street, enjoying the view of Dean's broad shoulders and slightly bow-legged gait.

It was only when Dean was finally out of sight that he pushed himself off the wall and make his way to the club, whistling contentedly as he went.

He had a feeling this was going to be a good night.

 


	12. "Who By Fire"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for one homophobic word. Also, the song Cas is playing is LCD Soundsystem's "Yeah (Crass Version)".

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“Who By Fire”

 

When Dean got back to Cas' apartment he occupied himself with pinning the new pictures to the wall. He stared at them for a while, trying to decipher the washed out ink patterns on the women's skin, and after a few minutes his arousal was a distant memory. Pictures of corpses were good for that.

After it felt like his eyes were going to cross if he stared at them any longer he went to the bathroom to take a piss. When he came back out he glanced at the pictures across the room in frustration—and stopped.

There. He could almost make out a word in one of the stamps. He moved closer, but the word dissolved before his eyes, back into meaningless squiggles. He stepped back again and it got better.

“Huh,” Dean said to himself. And then he moved around the room, watching the pictures the whole time, trying to find the right angle and distance to best reveal what the stamp said. Finally, when he was standing in the middle of Cas' bed—the man needed a damn bed frame like yesterday—he made out the word “Pearl” and felt his heart thud in his chest. Pearl. Again.

Maybe he could endure a  _ little  _ bit of Angry White Girl rap, if it meant getting an earlier jump on whatever was going on down at that club. Because it was becoming obvious to Dean that  _ something _ was going on. Something that had to do with the murders.

With that in mind he took extra care in getting ready, slipping an extra clip into his inside jacket pocket and a knife in not just one, but  _ both _ of his boot tops. And then, because he was also going to see Cas, he brushed his teeth and popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

When he got to the club he bypassed the line and headed straight for the doorman, giving him his name. The man looked down at his clipboard and then looked back up at Dean, one eyebrow quirked to the sky. Dean stared back at him, willing his face to remain impassive.

“I've never seen Cas leave anyone's name at the door before,” he said, and Dean almost told him to mind his own fucking business when he remembered that  _ he _ was here on business, too. Dean smiled his most charming smile—the friendly one, not the “panty dropper”—and said, “How long have you worked here?”

The guy shrugged. “Couple years, I guess. Left hand.”

Dean held out his hand to be stamped and then pushed it under the UV light they had on the table by the door to check re-entries. There he saw to his satisfaction that it was, indeed, the same stamp that had been on the girls' hands. “Do you guys always use the same stamp?” Dean asked.

The guy shook his head. “Nah. Different stamp for different nights of the week. We don't want people coming in two nights in a row without paying cover, you know? This is the Friday stamp.”

Dean felt a little thrill run through him, the same way he always did when he felt the pieces of a case click into place. He now knew the nights all of the girls disappeared, and while he didn't know why that was important yet, he knew that he would eventually figure it out.

He always did.

Dean felt, rather than heard, the impatient nature of the line behind him, and nodded his thanks to the doorman before making his way inside. Where he found, as promised, an Angry White Girl rapping on stage. About clothing. He sighed and made his way to the bar. He wanted to order a whisky, to help tolerate the music, but reminded himself that he was working and got a beer instead. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long drink as he turned around to survey the room, his elbow on the bar.

The club looked different from when Dean had been there before. Then it had seemed cavernous, the high ceiling a place fit only for spider webs and dust. Now, however, without any light coming in from outside he saw that the criss-crossed strands of fairy lights he had noticed on his first visit looked like fireflies on a summer night, and that the wispy fabrics covering the walls looked less like cheap props and more like curtains of mist. He was impressed. It was amazing what a change of lighting could do for a place.

He watched the people around him, curious to see what type of crowd was gathered. He saw that they were young, for the most part, but that wasn't too surprising—after all, there weren't too many middle-aged people who still went out clubbing. Most people his age were happy to stay at home and binge on Netflix.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and thought about that some more. Thought about how that actually sounded good to him: curled up on the couch, a beer in one hand, or maybe a tumbler full of whisky—not the shit he usually bought, to drink by himself in a shitty motel room, but something nice, something he wanted to sip. He could almost picture the amber liquid coating the inside of the glass as he lifted it to his lips, one hand holding the short glass while the other smoothed its way through soft, dark hair, blue eyes looking up into his in lazy amusement as he bent down to place a whisky-tinged kiss on warm, slightly chapped lips.

Somebody bumped into him, and he blinked, suddenly brought back to himself. Christ, what the hell was he doing? Was he really fantasizing about being domestic? About being domestic with  _ Cas? _ He tried to clear the image out of his head, but it was like it was firmly planted there, and he simply couldn't unsee it. He couldn't stop picturing the house, the way it would be filled with everything that marked it as  _ their _ house—the guitar leaning against one wall, a ridiculously complicated stereo on another, maybe a gun laid out on a table, gun oil next to it. And the pictures. There would be pictures on the walls, pictures of Dean and Cas at the Grand Canyon, on the Golden Gate Bridge, leaning against his baby with the Pacific Ocean behind them on Highway 1.

Dean swallowed, unnerved by the pictures that kept flooding his mind. It was like he was getting a  _ vision _ .

Shit. He needed to get his shit together right the fuck now.

He was about to turn back to the bar to order a double whisky—or maybe tequila—when he saw Sam's ridiculous hair over the top of everything. He lifted an arm to wave him over, but Sam had obviously already seen him, and was in the process of making his way over to Dean. One of the perks of being a huge freak, he supposed.

Dean waited while Sam got a drink from the bar before he tried to talk to him—something mixed, Dean noticed, and Dean had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a snotty comment about people who ordered  _ cock _ tails. In Dean's view the only appropriate place to mix drinks was in your stomach. And, eventually, your liver. 

When Sam had his drink firmly in hand Dean led him away from the bar, to an area of the dance floor that was relatively empty, about ten feet to the left hand side of the stage. It was empty because the Angry White Girl was concentrating on making out with girls in the audience on the right. Dean wondered if he had missed something—some song that had led up to this moment, made it make more sense—but then decided he didn't care, and turned back to Sam.

Sam, however, cared quite a bit, if the way he was staring at the hot girl on girl action going on twenty feet to his right was any indication.

“Shall I give you a minute?” Dean asked him with a smirk. Sam turned back to look at Dean, and Dean couldn't help but laugh at the obvious arousal on his face. “Well, I guess I don't have to check  _ your _ internet history to see what your favorite kind of porn is.”

Sam blushed and took a sip of his drink to cover his embarrassment. “Like you don't like it,” he said, under his breath.

Dean looked over, and saw that the singer was now kissing two girls at once, all of their tongues slipping over each other like some kind of tentacle porn. He shrugged. “I found out pretty early that cocks aren't very welcome at all girl orgies.  _ Despite  _ what they tell you on pornhub.”

Sam looked like he wanted to ask Dean more about that statement, but instead shook his head and took another sip of his drink. “What are we doing here?” he asked instead.

“Well, apparently  _ you're _ getting your freak on,” he said to Sam, his grin splitting his face wide. Sam started to say something back, but at that moment the audience erupted in clapping and whistling, and Dean looked up to see the singer walk off stage, holding the hands of the girls she had been making out with in one of each of her hands. “Huh,” he said, his lips quirking downwards in surprise. “I guess that was the encore.” He turned to see Sam looking at him with his bitchface, and went on. “I think all of the girls got taken from this club.”

Sam looked unconvinced. “We didn't find any evidence of that.”

Dean frowned at him. “Really? The fact that they all had their hands stamped with the name of this place didn't clue you in?”

“They didn't—” Sam started to speak, and then his words petered out. “They did. The stamp. It was ultraviolet.”

“Yep,” Dean said, and Sam looked reluctantly impressed. Dean tried to make himself focus more on the “impressed” than the “reluctant.”

“But... how did you..?”

“I don't know, Sammy—maybe because I'm actually  _ good _ at my job?” Dean snapped at him, and then instantly regretted it. He tried to remember his earlier resolve, to make more of an effort with Sam, and softened his voice. “I dunno Sammy—I just did. I also think I have a lead on where the bodies were dumped from. But that one's all on Jo—I found some of her notes in her apartment.”

“What? Where? We looked through her apartment.”

“Unless by 'looked through' you mean 'completely trashed' then you weren't the only ones.”

“Someone went through Jo's apartment? But why? No one knew she was working this case for me.”

Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam. “I think we can safely assume that's not true,” he said grimly.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “No, no, of course not. You're right. Shit, I have no idea what I'm doing here.”

Suddenly Sam was seven years old again, upset because he was the only kid in school without a Pokemon backpack. And Dean was the overprotective twelve ear old, willing to do whatever he could to make things right. “I know, Sammy, that's why I'm here.”

Sam nodded, then looked around the room before bringing his eyes back to Dean and saying, so quietly Dean wasn't even sure he heard him right, “I'm glad. I'm glad you're here, Dean. I don't want to do this without you anymore.”

Dean stared at Sam, and Sam stared back at Dean, and Dean opened his mouth to say something—maybe a joke, maybe that he felt the same way—when the lights dropped and the crowd around them started to cheer. And then Dean looked up on stage and whatever he was going to say evaporated on his lips, because Cas was walking out on stage, and  _ holy shit _ , he was fucking beautiful.

He wasn't wearing anything different than he had been when Dean had had dinner with him—loose jeans that hung off his hips and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—but there was something about the way he moved across the stage, so graceful, so  _ right _ , that made Dean's breath catch in his throat. Cas was carrying an electric bass in his hands, and when he turned his back to the audience and bent down and plugged it into an amp Dean almost whimpered.

“Dean?” Sam asked him, his voice concerned and a little hurt.

Dean turned back to look at Sam, and realized that he had just pretty much blown off Sam's heartfelt declaration. “I'm sorry, Sammy, this case, Jo, everything—I just.” He stopped speaking and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Same here. But I can't talk about this shit right now. Not until we find Jo. Okay?”

He supposed there must have been a desperate look on his face, because Sam just nodded and let it drop. “Okay Dean. So what do we do now?”

Dean shrugged. “Blend in. Drink. Watch the band. See if anything looks suspicious. The usual.”

Sam smiled. “Usual for you, maybe. But okay. I'm game. Should we split up?”

“Yeah, probably for the best. Text me if you see anything, and I'll do the same.”

“Right.” Sam moved away from him then, and Dean gave in to his need to look at Cas for a few minutes as he made some minor adjustments to his bass and then stepped over to speak with a guy holding an acoustic guitar. The guy laughed at something Cas said, and Dean felt nearly overwhelmed with the urge to jump up on stage and kiss Cas senseless, showing everyone that Cas was already taken. Damn, he really needed to get a handle on his inner caveman.

He turned away and moved through the crowd, keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed to be paying too much attention to the girls, which, yeah, given that this was a  _ club _ was pretty much everyone, but Dean had learned to tell the difference between people staring because they wanted to fuck you, and people staring because they wanted to hurt you, and while for some people those things went together he was still pretty good at noticing the difference.

He got a strange vibe off of a guy sipping some kind of umbrella drink in the corner, and moved closer to check him out. Once he got near him Dean saw that he was wearing a “DLB” t-shirt and staring at the band with a look of total adoration. No, not at the band: at  _ Cas _ . Dean moved directly behind the guy so that he was seeing Cas from the same angle (a little higher though, Dean pointed out to himself smugly, because Dean had a good three inches on the guy), and sucked in his breath.

_ Jesus _ . Cas looked even better from here. His eyes were closed as he played his bass, his chin bobbing slightly to his own beat, and Dean could see that his bottom lip was pulled just slightly between his teeth. His hips were also moving minutely, bumping his crotch into the back of his bass in time to the music in a way that could only be classified as sexual. The song finished and he opened his eyes, scanning the crowd in front of him. He frowned slightly as he did so, and Dean was filled with the desire to pull that softly pouting bottom lip in between his own and suck on it until Cas opened his mouth into one of his delightfully wide open smiles.

As if Cas had read his mind his eyes suddenly caught Dean's in the crowd, and his frown was replaced by a soft smile. And then he winked. Dean felt himself smiling back, bright and goofy, and then the guy in front of him gasped and said, to no one it seemed, “Oh my god. He  _ winked _ at me,” and Dean had to move away to keep from laughing. Either that or leaning in and whispering, “I hit that,” into the poor schmuck's ear.

Dean didn't find anyone suspicious after that, or maybe he was just distracted by the sight of his lover up on stage, but after a while he stopped trying to pretend that he was working and moved back to the bar where he could keep an eye on Cas. And then the band launched into a song that was basically nothing but bass and drums for what seemed like ten minutes, and Dean was gone. The way Cas' fingers flew across the strings, the way he nodded his head to the beat, the way the crowd pressed up to his side of the stage, as if drawn by invisible strings to his sheer magnetism. Dean wasn't even aware of how intently he was staring until he heard Sam speak in his ear, apparently not for the first time.

“Dean! You with me?”

Dean reluctantly dragged his eyes away from Cas and turned to Sam. “What?”

Sam shook his head. “I said 'do you think it has something to do with the band? With DLB?'”

“DLB?”

“Dante Loves Beatrice. DLB.”

Dean felt a surge of protectiveness at the thought of someone thinking Cas was involved, which was probably why he answered so sharply. “NO! Why do you think that? That's ridiculous!”

Sam held his hands up placatingly. “Whoa. Calm down. I was just asking because you were staring at them like you wanted to rip them apart.”

Dean blinked. He was pretty sure that he at least had different looks for “I want to kill you” and “I want to fuck you,” but apparently not—at least as far as Sam was concerned. Then Sam's words sunk in, and he remembered the “DLB + 2WKS” on Jo's tidal charts. And he saw in his mind the pieces of ruined t-shirt at the morgue, and realized how similar it was to the shirt Umbrella Drink guy was wearing. DLB. “Shit,” he said. “You're right.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, and Dean realized that this was his cue to let Sammy know what he was thinking. But then he'd have to explain his relationship with Cas, and Dean wasn't sure if he was ready to go there yet. Not with this new information in his head.

“Yeah...” Dean wracked his brain for a semi-intelligent thought. “What if our killer is fixated on this one band?”

Sam looked thoughtful. “Yeah, that could be what's happening. Or what if he's  _ in _ the band?” 

There was the sound of loud cheering and Dean realized that the music had stopped. The crowd surged back toward the bar, and Dean was jostled by about a hundred thirsty patrons. He stumbled a bit, and Sam reached out to steady him, his gigantic size meaning that the crowd tended to avoid smashing into him. He moved closer to Dean and gripped his shoulder tighter, and Dean smiled slightly at the idea of his little brother being protective of  _ him _ . The next thing he knew, though, was that he was being attacked, and suddenly the idea of having his own bodyguard didn't seem so preposterous.

Of course, the person doing the attacking was Cas, and his weapon was his lips, so Dean didn't really mind. Still, it was a little disconcerting. One minute he was looking up at Sam, and the next he had an armful of apparently  _ incredibly _ horny Cas. If this was what playing in a band did to him then he'd have to come see his shows every week.

That thought was what helped him respond so enthusiastically to the fact that Cas was seriously macking on him right now, in front of god and everyone. His mind—the part that wasn't trying to work out the puzzle of where his tongue best fit into Cas' mouth using a hundred different combinations—mulled over that last word. Everyone.  _ Everyone _ . Every. One.

Oh shit. Sammy.

Dean pulled back from Cas' lips, reluctantly, to turn and look at Sam, who was staring at him with what had to be the bitchiest bitchface in the history of bitchfaces. Which was good, because it chased away any of Dean's deeply seated guilt over what he was doing with Cas and turned it instead into anger, which was by far the easiest to deal with of his two most popular emotions.

“What?” he said

Sam's eyes opened in a “I can't believe  _ you're _ asking  _ me  _ that question” goggle, and then he gestured to Cas—who Dean still had his arms around. “Dude, you've been in San Francisco less than a  _ week— _ and you're gay?'

“Oakland, actually. And no, I'm not gay: I'm bi. And not for the last week—for my whole life. Thanks for noticing, by the way. And, since you didn't ask, this is Cas.”

Dean felt Cas stiffen a little in his arms, and then Cas was saying, “You must be Sam.”

Sam glanced once at Cas, and then was back to glaring at Dean. “Noticing?  _ Noticing? _ You know, maybe if you didn't stick your dick into  _ quite _ so many people, I'd've had the chance to notice that there was even less of a pattern than I thought.”

Dean wasn't sure what made him angrier—what Sam had just said, or the fact that he had completely ignored Cas' attempts to introduce himself to him to do it. Both of those thoughts were clearly competing with each other to make themselves the centerpiece of his glare, which must have made it hot enough to actually burn, because Sam flinched, and then looked apologetic.

“Shit, Dean, I'm sorry.”

Sam turned to Cas, and Dean saw that he was about to make a similar statement to Cas, when he was obviously hit with the force of Cas' glare as well, because the words died in his throat and he turned and fled the scene. Dean watched him go, and then felt Cas' warm hand on his arm, squeezing him gently. He looked down at Cas' long fingers wrapped around his forearm and brought his own hand down on top of them.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, Dean, I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I just—I saw you, with him, and he was smiling at you, and I just—I don't know, I don't act like that, not ever, it was—”

Dean stopped him. “Wait, are you saying you were  _ jealous _ ? That you were pissing in a circle 'round me because you thought Sam was hitting on me?” He smiled. “I thought that playing bass just made you horny.”

Cas gave him a small smile in return. “ _ You _ make me horny, Dean. But that's no excuse. I should have found out what was going on before I—before I outed you to your brother.”

Dean shook his head. “Don't worry about it.” Cas looked at him skeptically, and Dean continued in a rush. “Seriously Cas. I'm not upset about that.”

Somebody pushed into Cas from behind, and Dean pulled him closer, tucking him up against his side protectively. “Then what are you upset about?” Cas asked, their close proximity meaning the words buzzed off of Dean's jaw.

“The truth? I'm more worried about Sam outing me as a slut than you outing me as bi.”

Cas looked at him seriously. “Dean, I don't care how many people you've been with before. If anything, it should make me grateful, since  _ I'm  _ the one who gets to enjoy the benefits of all that experience.”

Dean looked at Cas in amazement. “You're perfect, you know that, right?”

Cas looked back at Dean, and Dean could swear he saw  _ flames _ in the bright blue depths of his eyes. “Come with me,” Cas growled, and then he was leading Dean through the crowd, past the stage, past a room filled with other members of Cas' band (a few of whom tried to speak to Cas, only to be pointedly ignored) and finally out a back door and into an alley, where Cas led Dean around the side of a dumpster before pushing him up against the wall and kissing him senseless.

“You're... the one... who's... perfect,” Cas managed to breathe between kisses, and Dean couldn't help but groan at the overwhelming flood of feelings that were pouring through him. Love, lust, happiness, desire, affection—but most of all,  _ approval _ washed over him, and he found himself gasping words against Cas' throat, his cheek, his hair.

“Want... always... Cas.... mine... need... forever... oh,  _ Cas!” _

Finally he couldn't take it anymore, and grabbed Cas' shoulders to push him away and spin him so that now Cas' back was to the wall. Dean bent his knees and slid his hands around the back of Cas' thighs, and with a grunt of effort lifted Cas up so that Dean was pressed fully into the open vee of Cas' legs, his rock hard erection pressed up against Cas' equally hard one. Cas gasped and whimpered beneath his mouth, and that was all it took for Dean to start rocking into Cas in earnest, his hips rolling forward to grind into Cas in a steady rhythm.

“Want you  _ now _ , Cas,” he growled.

“Dean,” Cas managed to gasp out, “stop, please, stop.”

Dean stilled his hips with a monumental effort, and breathed raggedly into the side of Cas' neck in frustration. “Okay,” he finally managed.

Cas unlaced his fingers from where they had been gripping the back of Dean's head, and Dean released Cas' legs back to the ground. He was surprised and a little concerned to hear the sound of Cas' head thunking against the wall. He lifted his head to look into Cas' eyes.

Cas brought both hands around to hold Dean's face, his thumbs tracing over Dean's cheekbones as he laughed shakily and said, “I still have another set to play. There's no way I can go back on stage after I've just come in my pants.”

Dean smiled back at him and said, “How long do we have?”

Without taking his hand off of Dean's face Cas turned his wrist so he could see the face of his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said.

Dean smirked. “Plenty of time.” And then he dropped to his knees.

“Wha—?”

Cas didn't even have time to get the word out before Dean had opened his pants and pulled his straining cock out into the cool night air. Without any hesitation he swallowed it down to the root, moaning appreciatively against its hard length. “Oh,  _ Jesus _ ,” Cas breathed, and Dean had to put both hands on his hips to keep him still as his head bobbed up and down on Cas' dick.

It didn't take long for Dean to figure out that the more noise he made, the more Cas liked it, so he didn't worry about keeping it dignified (yeah, there was such a thing as a dignified blow job in Dean's mind) and instead went all out, sucking and slurping so loudly he was sure he probably sounded like an old-school washing machine. Or he would, if anyone could have heard him over the sounds of Cas' moans, which were so loud Dean was sure they could hear them back inside the club. And damn if that didn't make Dean feel proud.

Dean looked up at the same moment that Cas looked down, and when their eyes locked Dean was suddenly worried that he was going to come in  _ his _ pants: the look of pure adoration on Cas' face filled a hole that Dean didn't even realize he had, and with a loud pop he pulled off and said, “Come for me, love” before sliding his lips back down around Cas' shaft. With a groan that Dean swore he could  _ feel _ Cas came down his throat, his fingers tight in Dean's hair as he shouted Dean's name up into the night. Dean swallowed everything he could, and was lifting his finger to push the last bit up off of his chin and back between his lips when Cas hauled him up onto his feet and licked him clean before pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth and seemingly trying to clean up everything on the inside as well.

He reached down to Dean's groin, but Dean grabbed his wrist and stopped him, lifting it up in front of Cas' face until Cas could see the watch face.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Cas breathed out, and Dean chuckled, low and dirty. 

“Guess you owe me one, huh?” he breathed along the side of Cas' ear as he carefully tucked Cas back inside his underwear and zipped up his pants.

“Guess so,” Cas said, clearly smiling at the thought. He stepped away from the wall and reached for Dean's hand. “Come on. You can watch from backstage, if you like.”

“I should probably find Sam,” Dean said.

“Okay.” Cas stood where he was, clearly waiting for Dean to follow him anyway.

Dean raised one eyebrow. “You go on. I, uh, need a minute.” He dipped his chin down, and Cas followed the direction all the way to the bulge in Dean's pants. He looked back up at Dean, and Dean was shocked and delighted to see that Cas looked fucking  _ proud. _

“See you in a minute, then,” he said with a smirk.

“ _ Fucker _ ,” Dean muttered, and then shouted out before Cas went back in, “I charge  _ interest _ on my debts, just so you know.” He couldn't be sure, but it seemed like the back of Cas' neck reddened.  _ Take that _ he thought, smugly, and then closed his eyes briefly to try and will his erection to subside.

He would have been better off keeping them open. Because, for one thing, when he opened his eyes back up there was a guy standing in front of him who was so ugly it caused his hard on to die a quick death. And for another, he would have been better able to block the punch that came straight at his face.

“I charge interest on  _ my _ debts, too, faggot,” the man said as his fist connected with Dean's chin. And that's when Dean realized where he had seen the man before—in the alley outside the club Cas had been hosting the open mic. Only thing was, now he was even uglier—the broken nose and two black eyes didn't do a thing to help his appearance. They did, however, give Dean a target to aim at. He shot his hand up and hit the guy's nose as hard as he could with the palm of his hand.

It had the intended effect: the guy howled and clutched at his face, falling backwards into the two guys who were trying to get past him and get their licks in at Dean. Dean used the temporary confusion of the situation to drive his heel into the guy on the right's knee, smiling grimly to himself as he heard the snap of cartilage breaking. He then used his forward momentum to head butt the third man, grimacing at the feel of the man's blood spraying from his nose onto Dean's cheeks.

Dean put the flat of his foot against the alley wall behind him and pushed off, using his right shoulder to barrel through the three men in front of him. He sprinted for the back door of the bar, confident that when he reached it there would be enough people there that he could call for help. Because, yeah, while he was pretty good in a fight that didn't mean he was above asking for help when it was three to one. He had his fingers on the handle when one of the men shouted after him.

“I'm going to fucking  _ kill _ you!”

He pulled open the door and saw at least a dozen people milling about in the hallway. That gave him the confidence to turn back and sneer at the men in the alley. “Yeah? Bang up job so far.”

“And then I'm going to go get your high school girl and give her to the Angel.”

That stopped Dean. He let the door close again and reached for the gun at the base of his spine, drawing it and flipping the safety off in one fluid movement. “Talk,” he said, pointing the gun at the men in front of him.

They were a mess: two of them with blood running down their faces, and one lying on the ground moaning, clutching his knee. Still, they seemed spectacularly uncowed by the gun Dean was pointing at them. “What are you going to do? Kill us?” the first man (the ugly one, Dean categorized him) said.

“Sure,” Dean said, his voice casual. “Why wouldn't I?”

The man shrugged. “Go ahead. There is no greater honor than to die in the service of the Lord.”

Dean snorted. “Dude, you are seriously fucked up. If there was a god, what makes you think he'd be okay with you kidnapping young girls?”

“We serve our Lord's emissary here on Earth. It is not for us to question him. And it certainly isn't for  _ you _ to do it, either.” When Dean didn't answer that, Ugly got a little cocky. “So, are you going to kill us, or what?” He opened his arms in invitation.

Dean shook his head. Save him from religious nut jobs. “Nah, I'm not going to kill you. But that doesn't mean I won't fuck you up.” And he dropped the sights of his Colt so that the man's kneecaps were in them. He was about to squeeze off a round when the door behind him was thrown open violently and he was knocked to the ground. He rolled onto his back and pointed his gun at the new threat behind him, only to find himself staring into the terrified eyes of a man and a woman who were obviously coming out to do exactly what he and Cas had just done. By the time he had lowered his weapon and gotten back on his feet the alley was empty, the three men having used the distraction to vanish.

“Dammit,” Dean said. The couple in front of him were still staring at him as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, his thumb hitting “Sammy” automatically.

“Uh, dude, do you mind?” The guy in front of him was talking.

Dean held the phone up to his ear with one hand, the gun in his other, and wished he had a third with which to flip the guy off. “Sorry kid: guess it's just not your night to get your dick sucked.”

“What? Look, Dean, I know I was out of line—” Sam's outraged voice came over the phone line.

“Wasn't talking to you, Sammy.”

“That doesn't really make me feel better.”

“I need help.”

Dean could hear the change over the phone line even before Sam spoke. Gone was any hint of complaint or apology—it was strictly business. Dean and Sam had been through this routine too many times not to recognize when one of them needed it to be serious.

“What do you need?”

“I'm going to text you an address. I need you to go there  _ now _ and pick up Amelia and Claire Novak and  _ get them out of there. _ No packing, no phone calls. Flash your badge if you have to. Tell them Cas sent you” (Dean mentally apologized to Cas for the lie), and glared at the couple in front of him, who were  _ still _ standing there glaring at him. He turned so that his back was to them, hoping they wouldn't take that as a signal to start getting busy. He turned his attention back to Sam. “Take them somewhere safe.  _ Not _ the police station.  _ Not _ your office. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, Dean, I understand,” Sam said. “I'll call you when I have them somewhere safe.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean paused, hearing the sound of a zipper being pulled down behind him. Un-fucking-believable. “And Sammy?” he added.

“What?”

“Be careful. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dean.”

Dean hung up, glanced over his shoulder at the couple (they were standing in the exact same spot he and Cas had used—Dean idly wondered how much money he could make setting up a hidden camera in that alcove) and made his way back inside. He caught a glimpse of Cas' band playing as he passed back through, and was struck by the look on Cas' face as he played some solo. The guy totally had a “just fucked” look on his face, and the audience was eating it up, the crowd pressed in front of Cas' side of the stage at least double to what it had been before. Dean couldn't help the small smile that flitted across his face, even with everything that was going on.  _ Yeah,  _ he thought.  _ I hit that. _

 


	13. "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye"

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“Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye”

 

When Cas got off stage the first thing he did was check his phone. He had grown concerned when he hadn't seen Dean come back in from outside, and so he wasn't surprised to see that there was a text waiting for him.

**Something came up. Important. Meet me back home.**

Cas felt unsettled, his joy at Dean's reference to his apartment as “home” at war with his unease over what might have caused him to leave early. He was so uneasy that he begged off loading up the van (he had done more than his fair share over the years, so nobody called him on it) and instead headed out immediately to walk back to his apartment. He was trying not to worry, and debating whether or not it would be too needy to call Dean and demand that he explain what was going on  _ now _ when his phone rang, ending the debate for him.

“Dean?” he answered, breathless. “What's going on?”

“Is this your idea of helping, Castiel?”

The voice on the phone was most definitely not Dean, and Cas kicked himself for not checking the caller ID first. “Michael,” he said.

“Yes.” The silence stretched out between them, and Cas knew that his Uncle was waiting for Cas to break first. He refused. There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line, and then Michael said, away from the phone, “Thank you Naomi, that will be all,” and Cas knew that whatever advantage he had hoped to gain by making Michael speak first was lost due to the fact that he had never had Michael's full attention in the first place. The bastard was still  _ multitasking _ while he was threatening Cas.

“What do you want?” Cas asked, desperately trying to make his voice sound calm.

“I  _ want _ you to keep your promises, Castiel. You told me that you would keep Dean Winchester from spreading lies about our family.”

Cas briefly considered playing dumb, but he knew that the way he had answered his phone, if nothing else, gave away the fact that he was closely involved with Dean. “Dean has not said one word about anyone in our family, Michael.”

“Perhaps not recently: I'm sure it's hard to say too much of anything when he has your penis in his mouth. But that doesn't mean he hasn't been poking around when he is not busy  _ serving _ you.” 

Cas stumbled a little on the sidewalk, realizing that he and Dean had been  _ watched _ . “Dean does not serve me.” Cas was proud of the fact that his voice stayed calm.

“Nor do you  _ serve  _ him. Or have you forgotten who you are?”

“I haven't forgotten who I am, Michael.”

“Really? It doesn't seem that way to me. I have been very lenient with you Castiel. I have allowed you your little  _ indulgences. _ Your pretend family, and your pretend life. But now I find that the company you keep has started to affect this family, and I will not allow that. It is time for you to decide where your true loyalties lie. Do we understand each other?”

Cas stopped walking and closed his eyes. It was worse than he had imagined. Michael knew. He knew about Amelia and Claire. He  _ knew _ . After three years of hiding them, his uncle knew. And it was all his fault. He had been warned away from Dean, and yet he hadn't been able to resist. And once again, someone else was going to pay the price for his inability to keep the people he loved safe.

“What do you want me to do?” Cas hated the way his voice sounded. Lifeless. Cold.  _ Defeated _ .

“I  _ want  _ you to prevent Dean Winchester from doing anything further to smear our family's good name. By any means necessary.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

The line went dead. And Cas knew just how it felt.

By the time he had made it back to his apartment he knew what he needed to do. He needed to end this thing with Dean. He told himself that he was only fast-forwarding things by a week at the most, because once Dean was finished with this case he would be moving on, going home. He told himself that his true loyalties lay with Amelia and Claire, and to the promises he had made Jimmy to always look after him. He told himself that the first words out of his mouth when he walked in the door were going to be, “Dean, this isn't working.” He told himself all of that. And then, when he crossed the threshold and saw Dean standing in the middle of room, all of that flew out of the window and the only thing he could think about was how desperately he needed to be in Dean's arms.

“Cas,” Dean began when he saw him, but Cas stopped his words with his lips, kissing Dean desperately. When they broke apart Cas spoke before Dean had the chance.

“Michael Milton is my uncle. He knows you are working on this case, and he wants me to stop you. And he has threatened Amelia and Claire if I don't do what he asks.”

“Holy  _ shit _ , Cas, anything else you've been keeping from me?”

“I think I love you.”

Cas felt Dean go still in his arms, but he couldn't regret having said everything, even if if it meant it ruined whatever this thing was he had with Dean. Not that that was important right now. What was important was making sure Amelia and Claire were safe. He started to say that when he felt Dean pull him into a hug so tight he could barely breathe, let alone speak. “Shut up for a second, man. That's a lot of information to process all at once: I think you broke my brain.”

Cas held still in Dean's arms, and let the fact that Dean was holding him and not hitting him allow small tendrils of hope to unfurl in his chest like one of those time lapse photographs of a bean plant growing from a seed. Finally he felt Dean heave a deep sigh and release him a little before he spoke into the top of Cas' head. “Your uncle is a douche.  _ No one _ is going to stop me from finding Jo. Sam is taking care of Amelia and Claire. And...” here he hesitated, and Cas felt himself go very, very, still. “And I think I love you, too.”

Cas rested his forehead on Dean's shoulder and smiled. Dean's hand reached up into the hair at the back of his head and tugged gently, bringing Cas' face up so that Dean could press a soft, almost chaste kiss onto Cas' lips. Suddenly Dean huffed a laugh against Cas' mouth. “Dude, I can't kiss you when you smile that wide. It's like there's nothing but teeth.”

If anything, Cas smiled even wider. “Sorry. You just make me very happy.”

Anything else he was about to say was cut short by the sound of Dean's phone ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the screen and then answered it by saying, “Talk to me Sammy.” He pressed a button on his phone and Sam's voice came out on speaker.

“God, Dean, now I know you're still pissed at me. You know I don't deal well with angry teenage girls. That was always  _ your  _ department.”

“I take it Claire has been giving you a hard time.”

“If by 'hard time' you mean threatening to kick my balls up into my teeth, then yeah.”

Cas spoke up. “Sam: let me talk to Amelia.”

“Hang on, she's in the other room grabbing some stuff.”

Dean swore, long and colorfully, and Cas heard an appreciative Claire mutter, “Holy shit. Teach me, sensei.”

“Yeah, well, the first thing you need to learn is to  _ follow my fucking instructions _ . What part of 'no packing' didn't you get?”

“The part where you suddenly get to decide what I have to do.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, probably to give Claire another lesson in creative swearing, when Cas interrupted him. “Claire. Get your mother and  _ get out.  _ Now.”

“Why?”

“Because my uncle has threatened to hurt you.”

“What? I don't even  _ know _ your uncle, why—”

Suddenly the sound of Amelia's voice filled the phone. “I'm sorry Cas. We didn't understand. We're leaving now.”

“But Mom—”

“ _ Now. _ ”

Dean spoke again. “You hear that Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean, I got it. I'm taking them to a friend's house. I'll text you the address.”

“Good.” Dean hung up and turned back to Cas. “Are we safe here?”

Cas didn't hesitate. “No.”

“Then let's go.” Dean hurried into Cas' bedroom and grabbed everything he had pinned to the wall and tossed it into his duffel. Cas grabbed a handful of clean underwear and his guitar. He hesitated a moment, and then also grabbed the bottle of lube and the condoms from the spot next to the bed and tossed all of it into Dean's bag. He heard Dean laugh behind him. “I'm not sure how I feel about coming third, after clean underwear and a guitar.”

Cas raised one eyebrow. “You're lucky my bass isn't here—you wouldn't have even made third, then.”

“Ouch. Come on.” They were halfway to the door when Dean stopped and put his hand across Cas' mouth. In the silence Cas could hear the shuffling sound of footsteps in the hall. He saw Dean reach behind him and pull a shiny Colt 45 automatic from the back of his pants as Dean mouthed the words “Fire escape?” at him. Cas nodded to the kitchen window, and Dean quickly moved to open it. Cas grabbed a spare guitar strap and quickly clipped it onto his guitar case and followed behind. As he followed Dean out the window he saw Dean roll his eyes at the guitar, but he didn't say anything—whether that was because he was willing to let it slide or because they needed to be quiet Cas didn't know.

Dean carefully slid the window shut behind them and was starting to make his way over to the fire escape stairs when Cas looked down and saw a car parked in the alley below them, its engine still running. He tapped Dean on the shoulder and pointed down, and then pointed to the ladder next to them and gestured “up.” Dean nodded and swung the handle of his duffle over one shoulder before putting the gun back in his pants and climbing the ladder. Cas waited until he had reached the top and climbed onto the roof before he followed, slinging his guitar on his back before he went.

“Where to now?” Dean asked.

“The building next door. We can go down their stairwell.” Cas jogged over to the edge of the roof, his guitar bumping against his back.

“Please tell me we don't have to jump across an alley.” Dean followed behind Cas.

“We don't have to jump across an alley.”

“Good. Because...” Dean got to where Cas was and stopped talking, looking down in dread. Cas looked over at him.

“But we do have to climb down a bit.” The building next door to them was an entire story shorter than Cas'. Cas made his way over to the corner, where he could see metal conduits leading down the side of his building. They looked fairly secure, and if they weren't, well, then, one story wasn't  _ too _ far to fall. Not when faced with the alternative.

He thought about explaining to Dean what he was about to do, then decided against it. After all: actions spoke louder than words, right? With that thought in mind he swung one leg over the small ledge in front of him, grabbed hold of the conduit with both hands, and braced his feet against the the brick on the side of the building. The conduit showed no sign of moving, and so he carefully began to make his way down, hand over hand, feet braced against the rough surface. He looked up, caught Dean's eye, and winked. “You still with me?”

Dean rolled his eyes, and said, “Christ. You're one of those guys that gets turned on by danger, aren't you?”

Cas thought about the way his heart was pounding, his attention hyper-focused on the task in front of him, and yeah, he'd admit it, the way his dick perked up with interest at the low growl of Dean's voice. “That going to be a problem?” he said, moving down another foot.

Dean flashed him a smile. “Nah. I just thought it might be nice if  _ one _ of us in this relationship was sane.”

Cas smiled back, and performed a little victory dance inside his head.  _ Shit. He was crawling down the side of a building and all he could think about was the fact that Dean just said they were in a relationship. _ He reached the other roof and held up his hands to Dean. “Toss me the bag of lube. And, you know, the other stuff.”

Dean smiled at him broadly and shook his head. “Yeah, pretty sure I'm in love,” he said with a grin, before dropping the bag into Cas' waiting arms. He then followed Cas down the conduit. Cas noticed that Dean had no real technique—it was obvious he hadn't had the training Cas had had—but he also saw that Dean's natural grace made up for that. When Dean joined him on the other roof they made their way over to the stairway access. It was locked, but Cas had expected that.

He turned to Dean, about to suggest that they try and kick it in together, when he saw Dean pull a small black pouch out of his inside pocket and withdraw two small wires. He quickly set about picking the lock, flashing Cas a triumphant grin when he was successful. Cas couldn't resist bending down and kissing Dean right then and there. “Show off,” he murmured against Dean's lips.

“You love it,” Dean said back, and Cas couldn't deny it.

After that it was fairly easy to make their way out of the building and to the Impala. For once Cas was thankful for the lack of parking on his block which had forced Dean to park nearly three blocks away, meaning none of Michael's goons were hanging out by the car when they got there.

After they had stowed their stuff in the back and pulled away Dean tossed his phone to Cas. “Check to see if Sammy has texted us the address of the safe house yet.”

Cas looked at Dean's phone, saw there was an address, and proceeded to give Dean directions to get there. “It's about forty-five minutes away,” he added.

“Good,” Dean said, taking his phone back. “Plenty of time for you to spill.”

Cas laughed humorlessly. “Not really, but I can give you the highlights.” When Dean looked over at him questioningly Cas added, “My family is complicated, Dean.”

Dean's laugh was just as humorless as Cas'. “Yeah, I'm starting to get that. Give me the Cliff Notes, then.”

So Cas told Dean about Michael, and about his obsession with reclaiming the family's good name after the Angel Murders. He told him about being carefully monitored all through his youth, and about how his cousins either turned into replicas of Michael—like Uriel and Zachariah—or left the family for good, like Balthazar and Gabriel.

“Wait— _ Balthazar  _ and  _ Uriel _ ? Seriously?”

“We're all named after angels, Dean.” Dean raised one eyebrow, the unasked question hanging between them. “Castiel,” Cas finally admitted. “The angel of Thursday.”

Dean snorted. “ _ Thursday _ ? Seriously?”

“What's wrong with Thursday?”

“I think the expression is usually 'TGIF'—you know, “Thank God It's Friday.' Not  _ Thursday _ .”

Cas felt like he could know Dean for the next fifty years and still be surprised by him. Something of that must have shown on his face, because Dean pursed his lips together briefly (had Cas seriously been considering breaking things off with Dean? He must have been crazy to think he would ever willingly leave those lips behind) and said, “What?”

“Dean, people have been making fun of my name for  _ years _ . You are the first to make fun of my day of the week.”

Dean looked inordinately proud of himself at that, and Cas found himself rolling his eyes affectionately. He was almost startled, then, when Dean switched from playful to business mode.

“What made you think this case had anything to do with the Angel Murders? Was it the marks?”

Cas startled, looking over at Dean sharply. “How do you know that?”

Dean sighed. “Detective.” Cas just continued to stare at him, and Dean went on. “You got all kinds of nervous after looking at the autopsy pictures. I figured it was the marks carved on the one girl's back.”

“Why didn't you think it was the fact that I was looking at pictures of corpses?”

Dean shrugged. “I could tell that you were too tough for that.”

“How?”

“The way you held yourself. The way you didn't seem too worried about protecting your stuff in the Square—like you knew that if someone tried to take it from you, you'd get it back. The way you didn't back down from me. Lots of things. Now am I going to have to explain every step of my detective work, or are you going to answer the question?” He smiled at the end, and Cas wondered if he had done that to take the sting off of his words. He kind of thought the answer was 'yes.'

“Actually, I'd love it if you explained every step of your work—you're very good at your job.” He paused to let the compliment sink in, only speaking again when Dean opened his mouth—probably to brush off the compliment, knowing Dean. “And to answer your question, that pattern was carved into the ceiling in my childhood bedroom. The same bedroom that had been occupied by my Uncle Lucifer.”

Dean stared at Cas for so long that Cas grew moderately afraid they were going to crash. Thankfully, however, Dean seemed to be able to multitask, and slowed down as they approached the toll booth. “They put you in a serial murder's bedroom and then left up the creepy shit he carved into the walls?”

Cas reached into his front pocket, dragged out a handful of bills and change, and held out his hand to Dean, who picked through it for the exact change to throw into the basket. “If we only ever got to sleep in rooms that good people have occupied we'd all be sleeping on the street. And I don't think they knew I could see the mark. It had been painted over, and was only visible when the light was just right. Besides, I wasn't supposed to know about Lucifer—he was the big family secret.”

Dean threw the money in the basket and pulled ahead, leaving the window open so the smell of the Bay came rolling in the car. Off in the distance Cas thought he could make out the barking of seals.

“So how did you find out, then?”

“Is there really ever anything such as a family secret?” Dean grimaced to himself, and nodded in agreement. “My cousin Balthazar told me.”

Dean nodded again. “Right.” They drove on for a little while without speaking, but Cas could tell that Dean was thinking—integrating this new information into what he already knew, no doubt—and so he didn't interrupt. Finally Dean turned to Cas and said. “I think this is about more than your Uncle sparing the family's good name.”

Cas felt the creeping dread that had been growing in his gut ever since he had seen the pictures writhe and turn inside of him. “Why is that?” he asked quietly.

Traffic slowed to a stop, and Dean was able to turn and look at him fully. “Because the information about the marks was never made public. It's not even contained in the file the D.A.'s office keeps on hand—my brother had to spend the day in the archives to find any mention of a mark at all—and even then there wasn't a picture.”

Cas stared into Dean's eyes, trying to see what this information meant to Dean. He stared at Dean unblinking for long enough that traffic started moving again and Dean had to look at the road. “Dean, I,” he started to say, but Dean interrupted him.

“And then there's something else. Something that I only figured out tonight.” Dean glanced over at Cas, but traffic again made it necessary for him to put his eyes back on the road. “All of the girl's in the morgue have UV stamps on their hands from Pearl. Friday night stamps. And I'm pretty sure that at least one of the girls was wearing a DLB shirt.”

The dread in Cas' stomach turned into bitter bile, and Cas had to push his hand to his mouth to stop from being sick. A million thoughts raced around his head, collided, were destroyed, and reformed as more terrible versions of themselves. Dean thought Cas knew what was going on. Dean thought Cas was involved. Dean thought it was Cas' fault that Jo was missing—Jo, who had disappeared soon after talking to Cas.

There was a hand on his knee, warm and gentle, and he looked up to find Dean staring at him with concern. Finally the roaring in his ears subsided enough for him to make out what Dean was saying. “Cas, man, are you okay?”

Cas wanted to address everything—he wanted to tell Dean he hadn't known, he wasn't involved, it wasn't him, but the first thing out of his mouth was, “Dean, I'm so sorry.”

They were finally off the bridge. There was a small park off to their right, and Dean pulled into it, parked the car in a spot facing the bridge, and turned off the engine. He pulled Cas' hands into his own and started rubbing them. It was only when the warmth started to creep back into them that Cas realized they felt like twin blocks of ice. “Talk to me,” Dean said, his voice low.

Cas drew in a deep shuddering breath, and managed to get out, “It's my fault Jo is missing. I was talking to her—they must have seen me talking to her...”

“Who, Cas? Who saw you talking to her?”

Cas shook his head. “I don't know. Whoever is doing this. Whoever has made me a part of this.” He looked at Dean and saw something pass across his face for a moment—a flicker, and then it was gone. And then Dean was pulling him across the front seat and into his arms, holding him tightly as he pressed his forehead into Cas' neck.

“Christ, Cas, for a minute there I thought... I was afraid...”

He didn't finish his sentence, just held Cas tighter, but Cas pieced together what Dean hadn't said. Of course. Dean tells him of his irrefutable connection to a series of murders, and the first words out of Cas' mouth were, “I'm sorry.”

“You thought I was confessing.”

Dean's hand came up to the back of Cas' neck and settled there, and Cas marveled at how he had managed to live his life so far without Dean's touch. He wondered how he would ever be able to live again without it, but pushed that feeling aside. Instead he pulled back slightly so that he could look into Dean's eyes and asked him, “Why  _ don't _ you think it's me?”

He watched as Dean's face went from relieved to fierce in a moment. “Because it's  _ not _ .” And then Dean was kissing him, hard and rough, their teeth scraping together for a moment until Cas opened his mouth and Dean's tongue slipped inside, licking against his gums, his palate, every space inside Cas' mouth, like he was trying to clean him from the inside out. Cas responded in kind for a minute, but then felt that his own passion was inspiring an answering desperation in Dean, and so he slowly gentled their kisses until finally he was just pressing soft closed mouth touches to Dean's lips, his cheeks, his eyes.

He felt Dean still beneath his lips, and opened his eyes to find Dean watching him, a soft look on his face. Dean reached over and ran his thumb across Cas' bottom lip before he leaned forward and pulled it between his own, sucking on it gently. He stopped and moved away again, running his thumb across the now spit-slickened surface. He looked satisfied with the improvements he had made, and was still staring at Cas' lip when he said, “Because I love you.  _ That's  _ how I know it's not you.”

Cas knew the delight he felt at hearing Dean say those words must have been contagious, because Dean grinned at him before leaning forward again. Just then, however, a car pulled into the lot with them, and Cas placed a restraining hand against Dean's chest. “We should get out of here. This park is a well known spot for prostitution. I'd rather not be offered a threesome right now.”

Dean raised one eyebrow at that. “Right now?”

Cas felt himself blush. “Ever.”

Dean grinned. “You are so damn cute.” He released Cas and slid back behind the wheel, restarting the car as Cas moved back over to his side. “But I'm glad to hear you're not interested in that sort of thing. I don't share what's mine.”

Cas felt something flare up inside of him at that, something that was so old it was probably primordial. “Neither do I,” he growled, and was half-surprised when Dean threw back his head and laughed.

“That's my baby,” he said, and then they were back on the freeway.

 


	14. "By The Rivers Dark"

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“By The Rivers Dark”

 

Dean thought that the house they pulled up in front of looked like someone had taken a shipload of cargo containers and dumped them on the ground, but at least it had a garage for his baby. His first baby, that was—he was going to have to get used to having two “babies” now. He  _ hoped  _ he was going to have to get used to it.

Sam was there to greet him and Cas when they climbed out of the car, and explained how this was a beach house that belonged to his friend Brady's family as he led them inside and into the kitchen.

“How did you know it would be empty?” Dean asked, and Sam also explained that he had texted Brady as soon as he had known what was up and got his permission to use the house for as long as he needed.

“I think he thought I was hooking up with a married woman, or something.”

Dean crossed his arms at that and said, “See? I'm not the only one who thinks you need to get laid.”

“Jerk,” Sam said, but there was affection under the tone, and Dean's voice was soft when he responded with, “Bitch.” They both smiled widely for a second, until Dean started to tell Sam everything Cas had told him, and Sam's smile was gone as he shook his head and muttered, “Damn, I knew this job was too good to be true.” He seemed to recover himself though and ended the conversation with another—albeit smaller—smile, which he directed at Cas.

“So if you're a part of the Milton family then that would make 'Cas' short for...?”

Cas sighed. “Castiel.”

Dean listened to the resigned way Cas said it as he snagged a beer from the nearby fridge and asked him, “Do you hate it?”

Cas blinked. “My name? No... it just gets tiresome explaining it all of the time.”

“So you wouldn't mind it if I called you 'Castiel' sometimes?”

Sam groaned. “Jesus, Dean, can you just—not? For five minutes?” Sam's voice, however, didn't match the ire of his words, and Dean couldn't help but notice that the look he gave him was miles away from the look he had given him in the club. That look had been one of disgust; this one was rather one of tolerant affection.

“I'm sorry, I don't understand,” Cas—'Castiel,' Dean reminded himself, said. “And the answer is no, I wouldn't mind.”

Before Dean could tell him that he would explain it later Sam piped up and said, “Dean always said that two or three syllable names were better. In the throes of passion,” he added, when Cas still looked confused.

Dean snorted. “'Throes of passion'? No wonder you never get laid, Sammy.”

Cas frowned. “But your name is only one syllable, Dean. Unless you have another name you would prefer I use.”

Cas' voice dropped a full octave lower as he said that, and Dean felt his dick twitch with interest. “I like how you say my name in the 'throes of passion,'” he said, and ran his finger over the top of the beer bottle suggestively. He watched, fascinated, as the blue of Cas' eyes was quickly replaced by black as his eyes darkened with desire. His dick gave another twitch. Oh yeah: definitely interested.

“Aaaaand that's my cue.” Dean looked over at Sammy and grinned at how uncomfortable he looked. God, he should have come out to him years ago—he couldn't believe he had missed years of opportunities to embarrass his little brother. “You guys can have the master bedroom,” Sam added on his way out.

Dean was pleasantly surprised to be given the best room in the house. “What, really? How come?”

Sam stopped and turned to look at him. “Because it's on the opposite side of the house from all of the other bedrooms,” he said, and then added, almost (but not quite) under his breath, “And hopefully sound-proofed.” And then he was gone, and Dean and Cas were alone in the kitchen.

Dean looked at Cas, and saw that he was eyeing Dean speculatively. “What?” he asked the other man with a smile.

“I don't know about you, but that sounded like a challenge to me.” Cas' eyes positively  _ glinted _ .

Dean set down his beer bottle with a thud and then leered. “Well, then: challenge accepted.” And then he darted forward, grabbed Cas' arm, bent his knees and slung Cas over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. After an initial gasp of surprise Cas allowed it to happen, and laughed as Dean carried him off in the opposite direction of where Sam had gone, and where he supposed the master bedroom lay. Dean grabbed the duffle on the way.

Cas laughed again and said, “Dean, I can walk.”

To which Dean replied, “Don't worry: I plan on fixing that.” He felt Cas' erection press against his shoulder then, and was glad when he finally made it to the door of the master suite: he wasn't sure he could have walked much further with the one he was quickly developing himself.

He dropped the bag on the floor and threw Cas down on the bed, crawling on top of the smaller man before he could even push himself up on his elbows. He grabbed Cas' wrists and pinned them above his head as he bent down and sucked Cas' lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue along it for a few seconds before he bit down and felt it swell between his teeth.

Cas moaned into his mouth, and Dean wanted to swallow the sound down like nectar. “Someone's feeling their inner caveman tonight,” Cas whispered, his voice so low Dean was half surprised the windows didn't rattle in sympathy.

“Mmm,” Dean agreed, transferring Cas' wrists to one hand so that he could use the other to stroke down Cas' chest to his groin, where he cupped his fingers around the bulge he felt there and  _ squeezed _ . Cas' groan caused an answering one in Dean, and he panted in Cas' ear for a minute before he continued with, “That okay?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas replied, his hips bucking up into Dean's palm and his head thrown back in surrender. “I trust you.” Dean popped the button on Cas' jeans and slid his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around Cas' erection as he sucked a bruise on Cas' throat. “Oh God, oh Dean, oh yes, please, yes.” The words falling out of Cas' mouth were such a turn on that Dean was reluctant to stop them, but he couldn't resist crushing his mouth to Cas' and sucking on his tongue, catching all the sweet moans Cas was making as he writhed on the bed beneath him. Dean knew intellectually that Cas was strong enough to break the hold he had on his wrists, but somehow, knowing that he  _ could  _ break free and chose not to was even more arousing than thinking he was really under Dean's control.

“Gonna make you scream for me, Castiel,” Dean said against Cas' lips as he rubbed his thumb over Cas' slit, sliding through the precome. Cas keened beneath him, and Dean pulled back enough to see that his eyes were fully blown, black with desire and need. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, suddenly afraid that he was going to come in his pants just from looking at the other man. He abruptly sat up and released Cas, who looked almost bereft at the loss of both of Dean's hands at once. “Clothes,” he said gruffly, by way of an explanation. “Now.”

They both quickly stripped down. Dean finished first ( a t-shirt was quicker than a button down) and hopped off the bed to grab the lube and a condom from the bag. When he climbed back up on the bed he saw that Cas was watching him intently, eyes still black pools of desire. Cas reached down to stroke himself and Dean batted his hand away. “No,” he said, replacing Cas' hand with his own. “Mine.”

Cas obediently put his hands on the bed and answered, “Yours.” His voice was absolutely wrecked.

With no warning Dean lunged forward and swallowed Cas down to the root, his nose brushing the black hairs at the base. Cas shouted, and if Dean hadn't already had his hands on Cas' hips to hold him down he would have surged up off of the bed. Dean hummed and then swallowed, the muscles in his throat gripping Cas tight. He opened his eyes and looked up at the other man, and saw that Cas was gazing at him with a look that was part adoration and part raw desire. “Mine,” Cas said, his voice awestruck as he reached down to stroke his fingers gently underneath Dean's jaw.

Dean pulled off with a pop, held Cas' gaze and said, “Yours.” He noticed that his voice sounded raw and fucked out, and Cas must have, too, because he whimpered at the sound.

“Dean, please,” he said. “Fuck me.”

Dean reached over and grabbed the lube from where he had dropped it on the bed and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. He pushed Cas' legs open and ran the tip of one lube-coated finger around his hole, feeling Cas clench and tremble before he slowly slid it inside. He looked up in time to see Cas' eyes flutter closed and his lips part on a soft  _ oh _ and then he looked back down to where Cas' body was pulling his finger in deeper. He twisted it and pulled it back out, only to slide it back in again. Cas reached down and grabbed his knees, pulling them up to his chest and opening himself that much more to Dean's hand.

“Dean...” he breathed out, his voice pure bliss.

“Ready for another?” Dean asked, waiting for Cas' answering nod before he slipped a second finger inside. Reaching up as high as he could, he crooked his fingers and stroked inside Cas until he found the bundle of nerves he was looking for and rubbed them gently. He was rewarded by Cas throwing his head back and grunting out, “There, Dean, right there, oh god, right there Dean.” Every stroke after that resulted in Cas panting out his name, until the only sounds in the room were  _ Dean Dean Dean _ and harsh breathing.

Dean felt his erection hard and leaking against his belly, and rubbed himself on the mattress to get some much-needed friction. The groan he made was answered by Cas, who looked down between his legs to say, “ _ Now _ , Dean,” his commanding voice totally at odds with his submissive posture.

Dean carefully added a third finger, stilling his hand for a moment when he heard Cas hiss at the new burn. Keeping his hand still and in place, he kissed his way up Cas' chest to his face, licking at the stubble on Cas' chin before grinning against his mouth and teasing, “So bossy. Maybe I should just let you take over.”

“Maybe you should,” Cas growled back at him, and before Dean knew what was happening Cas had flipped them so that he was straddling Dean, Dean's fingers still in place as Cas sank down on his hand, a grateful look on his face as he fucked himself on Dean's fingers.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean whispered, staring at the man above him in awe at the sight he presented. With his white skin and black hair illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows of the master suite he looked wild and dangerous, a feral creature caught in the headlights. “You're so fucking beautiful,” Dean gasped.

Cas shot him a desperate look then, and Dean felt along the mattress until he found the condom with his free hand. He lifted the foil package up to his teeth and tore it open, withdrawing the condom with one hand. It was a bit awkward, but he managed to sit up enough to reach around behind Cas and slide the condom onto his dick one-handed.

As soon as the condom was in place Cas lifted up on his knees and pulled off of Dean's fingers, reaching behind himself to line Dean up before he sank down onto Dean's shaft in one steady push.

Now it was Dean's turn to throw his head back and scream, the shock and pleasure at finding himself surrounded by all that tight heat almost too much for him. He slid his hands up Cas' thighs to his hips, thumbs rubbing over the other man's sharp hip bones. “So fucking beautiful,” he said again, and Cas whimpered low in his throat.

“Dean,” he said, his voice needy and desperate, and suddenly Dean surged forward, wrapping his arms around Cas' shoulders and burying his face in the crook of Cas' neck.

“I'm right here, baby,” he said into the smaller man's shoulder. “I got you, man.”

“Don't let go,” Cas said, his own face pressed into Dean's shoulder.

Dean knew what he was asking. And he knew what he should do. He knew that he should cover Cas' mouth with his own, kiss away any other words, throw Cas on his back, push his legs up and over his shoulders and fuck him senseless. He knew all of this. And yet that wasn't what he did. He pulled back far enough to place his fingers on Cas' chin, lifted his face up until he could look into Cas' eyes, and whispered, “Never,” against his lips before kissing him almost reverently.

“I love you,” Cas gasped out against his mouth, and Dean smiled and nipped Cas' jaw with his teeth before saying, “I love you, too. Now shut up and let me fuck you.”

Cas laughed then, low and delighted, and Dean felt the rumbling warmth all the way down to where he and Cas were connected. “Yes, Dean,” he added, and that was it. Dean pushed him down on his back, put his legs over his shoulders and began to fuck him with long hard strokes.

“Yes, Dean! Yes!” Cas shouted, and Dean knew he wouldn't last long at this rate.

“Cas,” he gasped, “touch yourself. Please.”

Cas reached down and wrapped his hand around his erection and started stroking in time to Dean's thrusts. It only took half a dozen pulls before he was shooting between them, his head thrown back and Dean's name on his lips. He clamped down around Dean's cock so hard it was almost painful, and Dean thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

“Nnnngh,” he managed to grunt out as he came, his release so violent that for a second he was sure he had come blood. He dropped like a stone onto Cas' chest, not caring at all that he was landing in the mess of Cas' come. When he was aware of something besides his own heartbeat thudding in his ears he realized that he still had Cas bent nearly in half and that his softening dick was still in Cas' ass. “Sorry,” he slurred out, feeling like he had had an aneurism or something. “I think I was clinically dead for a minute there.”

He pulled out of Cas and rolled over to his back, still not having enough strength to remove the condom. Cas chuckled beside him and said, “Whatever you do, don't go toward the light.”

“Got it,” he replied, and then turned his head to look at Cas, only to find that the other man had turned to look at him at the same time. He leaned forward, fully intending to kiss Cas' lips but was distracted enough by how freaking adorable he was that he kissed the tip of his nose instead. Cas looked shocked for a minute, and then broke into one of his gummy smiles. “Stop being so fucking cute,” Dean grumbled as he sat up.

“I thought I was fucking beautiful,” Cas replied. “How did I get down-graded?”

“Cute is an  _ upgrade _ , man. Trust me.”

Cas made a humming noise. “Well, since you are both, I suppose I'll just have to trust you on that one.”

Dean made a  _ hmmph _ noise as he went into the bathroom to get a wash cloth to clean them up. When he came back out he gently wiped Cas' chest clean before lifting one of his legs and wiping away the excess lube. “I'm not cute. I'm  _ adorable _ .”

“Yes, dear,” Cas said, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “I notice you're not disputing the beautiful part, though.

Dean threw the used washcloth in the direction of the bathroom and climbed back in bed. “Well, if the shoe fits...” He crawled up to lay his head on Cas' chest, relishing the way he could feel Cas' laughter through his cheek.

“See? This is why I didn't like you at first. I thought 'here is a man who is gorgeous and knows it.'”

“Like you didn't know that you looked like sex on legs yourself,” Dean scoffed. After Cas didn't say anything back Dean pushed himself up on his elbows to look at him. “Cas? You know, right? Please tell me you know that you're beautiful.” He watched the other man look away in embarrassment. “God, you really don't.” He put his head back on Cas' chest and said, “Good.”

“What?” Cas sounded confused.

Dean smiled and said, “You know what? Forget I said anything. You are one  _ ugly _ motherfucker. You're lucky I can even stand to look at you. In fact, if I were you I wouldn't even bother trying to get anyone else to ever look again. I'm pretty much the best you can do.”

“Dean, that statement is unhealthy on so many levels.”

Dean looked up and saw that Cas was gazing down at him seriously, and opened his mouth to tell him that he was just kidding when Cas bent down and kissed him on the forehead. “And thank you for it. Good night, Dean.”

“Good night, Cas.”

 

 

* * *

 

Cas woke a few hours later to the sound of his phone ringing.

“Make it stop,” Dean said, burying his face in Cas' side. Cas reached over and snagged his phone from the nightstand.

“Hello?” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Oh, did I wake you?”

Cas recognized Frank's voice, and started to say that it was okay when Frank interrupted him with, “That was sarcasm, by the way. I really don't give a fuck if I woke you. And you won't either, when you hear what I have to say.”

Cas sat up at that, and looked at Dean, who had obviously heard what Frank had said and was looking interested. “What did you find out?”

“So I ran all that tidal data through a program I wrote a few years back to try and catch this douchebag who was dumping his trash in the bay, and I think I found where all of the bodies have started out. Well, I'm seventy percent sure. Okay, sixty-nine, to be statistically accurate, but god, people have  _ destroyed that number— _ a perfectly good number, and now I refuse to use it. It's the same with four twenty.”

“Sixty-nine percent sure?” Cas prompted him. Beside him Dean snorted, and Cas rolled his eyes.

“I heard that. See what I mean?”

“I do, Frank. But this place—the one that you are sixty— _ seventy _ percent sure about. What is it?”

“You're not going to like it.”

“Frank.”

“Angel Island.”

Cas was aware that Frank kept talking, but he really didn't hear anything else he said. At some point he realized that Dean had taken the phone away from him and was speaking to Frank, and tried to bring himself back long enough to thank Frank for the information, but by then Dean had hung up. He placed the phone back on the nightstand and pulled Cas into his arms.

“Cas, man, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost. And you're  _ freezing _ . Come here.” Dean lay back down and pulled Cas up to snuggle close into his chest, his arms wrapping around his back and rubbing briskly to warm him up. “Talk to me, man.”

Cas leaned into Dean and inhaled his scent. It was rich and spicy, and he knew that nothing else would ever smell quite as delicious. “Do you think it's possible for a family to be cursed, Dean?”

Dean stopped rubbing his back and instead pulled him closer. “I used to. Now, I'm not so sure. I think that, maybe, sometimes, good things  _ do  _ happen.”

Cas rubbed his nose along Dean's collar bone. “But can they last?”

“I don't know.” Cas felt Dean lift his chin, and he obligingly looked into green eyes. “What is it?”

“Angel Island is owned by my family. At the turn of the last century we had a garment factory there, with dorms and a commissary so that the 'workers' never had any reason to leave. In 1917 they had a contract to supply uniforms for the US Army, and in order to meet the demand the managers started to enforce mandatory unpaid overtime. After a few months of this one of the workers managed to convince the rest of the workers—all young women—to strike.”

He went silent, and Dean kissed his forehead. “What happened?”

“They stopped sending food. Most of the girls were malnourished to begin with, and their children—about half had children with them—barely had any chance at all. After two weeks almost half of the island was dead, and they dumped the bodies into the bay. There probably would have been some kind of inquiry, but once the bodies to started to surface the Spanish Flu had arrived, so it was easy enough to blame all of the deaths on that.”

“Jesus. Cas, that's terrible. How do you know all of this?”

Cas closed his eyes. “Because Michael used to tell us the story all of the time. He used it as an example of how our family was  _ blessed— _ how everything we did always worked out to our advantage, and how that was proof that God loved us most.”

Cas waited for Dean to push him away. Waited for Dean's disgust to manifest. Instead Dean put his head on Cas' shoulder and said, “Man, your family is a bag of dicks.”

Cas huffed out a laugh. “Dean—”

Dean stopped him. “My dad used to take off and leave me and Sammy for weeks at a time. No money, no word. I had to shoplift peanut butter when I was eleven years old. I had to get on my knees behind truck stops when I was fourteen. Thankfully, I learned to hustle pool by the time I was sixteen. And every time my dad came back, you know what he would say? He would say it was all okay, because we were Winchesters, and we were strong enough to take it. Well fuck that. My dad was a dick, and your family are dicks, but we're not. We're more than that. And we are not fucking  _ cursed _ , do you hear me Cas? We aren't. We  _ aren't _ .”

Cas stared up at him, in awe of the conviction he heard in Dean's words. “Okay, Dean,” he finally said. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean sat up and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Now where do we get a fucking boat?”

“What?”

Dean slid out of bed and pulled his pants on. “Two weeks, right, Cas? That's how long your family starved them for. And that's how long he keeps them for, after he takes them, right?”

“Where are you getting that?”

“Jo figured it out. She wrote 'DLB + 2WKS' on the charts. He takes them from your shows, holds them for two weeks—probably  _ starves _ them—and then kills them and dumps them in the bay.” 

Cas looked shocked, but started getting dressed. “How can you be so sure?”

“I'm not. All I know is that it's been ten days since Jo disappeared. And I need to get my ass to Angel Island.”

The answer to the “where do we get a boat” question turned out to be the same as the “where do we find out about the tides” question: Frank. As Dean was to find out, the answer to all things having to do with water around Oakland was Frank.

“He says water is the only thing anyone can ever really trust,” Cas said with a shrug when Dean asked him about it.

“He trusts you,” Dean replied.

“He says I am the most water-like person he has ever met.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Cas shook his head and smiled grimly. “Sometimes, with Frank, it is better not to ask.”

Like it was better not to ask where Frank had gotten the boat. After Cas had called Frank back and asked him about getting one (“Took you long enough to get there,” Frank had said) he and Dean had woken Sam up, told him the plan, and then left the house. Sam had been reluctant to let them go on their own, but had seen the wisdom behind it. Someone needed to be able to bail them out of jail, or call for back up, or just do research. Cas knew from his Special Forces days how the people on the outside were just as important—often more so—than the people who went in.

He also knew how important it was to go into a situation prepared. So he asked Frank for the name of someone who could supply them with all the equipment they would need for an island rescue (in the middle of the night, no less), and wasn't surprised when Frank gave them three names to choose from. Cas picked the one closest to where they were, and that was how he and Dean ended up in some guy's basement in Marin looking at walkie talkies and night scopes at three a.m.

“So what kind of deal you guys got going down?” the guy asked, his surfer blond hair hanging over his eyes as he puffed a joint, entirely unconcerned to have been called in the middle of the night.

“The private kind,” Dean answered, his voice gruff but not exactly unfriendly.

“I hear ya,” the guy replied, not offended in the least. Cas moved around the room quickly, grabbing items off the wall and piling them in the center of the room. Surfer dude watched the items pile up and eyed them speculatively. “No weapons, huh?”

“We have that part covered,” Cas answered, thinking of the small armory Dean owned. “How much for all of this?” The man quoted a number back that made Dean gasp, but Cas simply handed over a bank card.

“I'll go run this and be right back,” he said. As soon as he left Dean grabbed Cas' arm.

“Busking pays that well?”

Cas looked at the floor. “It's from an account I set up for Claire when I got back. I put all of my Army pension in there for her.”

When Dean spoke his voice was thick. “Cas—”

“If there is the slightest chance that Jo is still alive it will be the best money I ever spent. And I would be doing Claire a grave disservice if I were to think for a moment that she wouldn't agree with me.”

Cas was only momentarily startled when Dean pulled him into a crushing kiss. He was quite a bit startled, however, when he heard a throat clearing from across the room. He looked up to find the surfer guy grinning at them as he handed Cas back his card.

“Here ya go,” he said.

“My apologies,” Cas began, but the man cut him off.

“Nah, man, two hot dudes making out in my basement? What's not to like? It's all good, man.”

Dean didn't say a word as he loaded their gear into the back seat of the Impala, but when they were both back in the car and he had started the engine he cut his eyes over to Cas and said, “This is a weird town.” Cas started to answer him, but he reached over and put his hand on Cas' knee to stop him. “I like weird.”

Cas smiled at him, and they began their drive back to Oakland to meet Frank.

 

* * *

 

The boat Frank got them was seaworthy, but just barely. “Good thing we don't have to go out into the open ocean in this thing,” Cas said as he navigated the boat over the top of yet another wave, sending them plunging down to the bottom of the trough for what felt like the thousandth time to Dean. “That would be rough.”

Dean groaned beside him. He never thought the day would come when he wished he could have flown somewhere, but he found himself wishing they had asked Frank about a helicopter instead. He looked up at Cas, who seemed entirely unaffected by the violent motion. “You got any advice to help with the seasickness?” Dean asked him. Cas glanced down at him and frowned thoughtfully.

“I've always found puking to be quite effective,” he said.

Dean glared at him, but when Cas didn't so much as crack a smile he said, “Seriously? That's it?”

Cas shrugged. “It's what works for me. Everyone gets seasick if they spend enough time on the water. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Dean groaned, and then crawled to the edge of the boat, where he leaned as far out as he could and violently lost what felt like his dinner, lunch, breakfast, and maybe a candy bar he had eaten back in third grade. The boat lurched sideways just then, and he would have also lost his balance and fallen overboard if it hadn't been for Cas' strong grip on the back of his jacket.

He gasped when Cas dragged him back to the middle of the boat. “Everyone also falls overboard if they spend enough time on the water. However, I would prefer if you didn't cross everything off your ocean-going bucket list in the same five minutes.”

“Jesus, don't say 'bucket' right now.”

Cas looked confused for a minute, and then grinned. “If I hadn't seen with my own eyes what you just did I would kiss you right now.”

“You were watching? Aw, man, that makes it even worse.”

“I wanted to make sure you didn't lose your balance and fall in.”

Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, well, good call on that.” He reached up and grabbed a bar near the wheel Cas was holding with one hand, and with the other grabbed Cas by the hip. “I'm good now. You can let go.”

Cas shot him a look out of the side of his eyes. “I'm only letting go because it's better if I use two hands. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said, rubbing his fingers along the place where Cas' hip bone jutted out, “I know.” Cas smiled to himself, and Dean couldn't help but smile back. He noticed that his stomach was much less queasy now that he had actually puked. His mouth, however, still tasted like shit. “Ugh, it tastes like I rimmed the entire football team after a three hour practice.”

He was pleased when Cas barked out a laugh next to him. “Do I want to know how you know what that tastes like?”

Dean shrugged, but the corners of his eyes crinkled up with amusement. “Hey, man, we didn't all go to seminary school. What can I say?”

Cas chuckled next to him, and Dean was hit with just how much the man standing next to him meant to him. How much it meant that Cas actually  _ got _ him. He looked away before Cas could turn and see the naked adoration on his face.

They spent the next few minutes in a companionable silence, until Cas slowed the engines down and said, “There.”

Dean squinted into the direction Cas was looking in, but didn't see anything at first except darkness. Then he looked closer and noticed that some of the darkness looked  _ darker _ than the rest, and he realized that he was staring at an island with a long dock sticking out in the water. “Is that where we're going to land?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas replied. That's the commercial dock. There's a private dock around back, attached to the manager's house—we used to have summer picnics there sometimes, so it's probably still in pretty good repair. This dock, on the other hand, has been condemned for nearly a hundred years. It's probably entirely unsafe. We were forbidden from going anywhere near it as children.”

“Wait a minute. We're going to skip the possibly safe landing and go for the almost certainly  _ un _ safe one instead?”

Cas turned to him then, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. “Yes, Dean. That's exactly what we're going to do.”

Dean grinned at him. “Have I told you how much I fucking love you?”

If anything, the light in Cas' eyes got brighter, and he grabbed Dean by the back of the neck and pressed a brutal kiss to Dean's lips. “Not nearly often enough,” he said against Dean's lips when he finally pulled back. Then he smacked his lips together distastefully and said, “Ugh. I think I just tasted linebacker ass.”

Dean ducked his head so that his breath didn't hit Cas as he spoke. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

As it turned out, the dock wasn't nearly as unsafe as Dean was afraid it would be. Cas said something about “old growth forests” and “skilled craftsmen” before Dean cut him off and said, “Can we have the Bob Villa moment later? I'd kind of like to get off this boat  _ now _ .” Cas did his little head tilt that meant he had no idea what Dean was talking about, but he stopped talking and let Dean climb up onto the dock so that he could tie the boat up stem and stern, He then handed Dean their equipment and accepted Dean's help up to the dock himself. They each slipped a backpack full of gear on and slid night vision goggles over their eyes. Dean looked at Cas and noted the details of his appearance—the white jut of his sharp chin, the way his shoulders were so straight and level, the way his hair stuck up beneath the goggle strap to look even more freshly fucked than usual. He committed these things to memory, hoping it would be enough to let him tell Cas apart from anyone else at a distance. 

Then Cas was pinning something to the front of his shirt, and when he looked down he saw that it was a flat disk that looked green to his night vision. “In case we get separated, so we can recognize each other,” Cas explained as he pinned a similar disk to his own shirt.

“And here I was trying to memorize the shape of your ass,” Dean said.

Cas grinned. “That might work, too. But these are a sure thing.”

“Are you saying your ass isn't?”

Cas reached over and pinched Dean's own ass so sharply that it was all he could do not to yelp. “Only for you, sweetheart.”

God, this was a side of Cas he had never seen before, and he fucking  _ loved _ it. This Cas was so sure of himself as to be almost cocky, and the smooth and competent way he had first picked out all of their gear, and then gotten the boat and found the island in the dark of night was an incredible turn on. He wondered if this was what Cas had been like when he had still been serving, and if so he wondered how in the hell he had ever managed to give it up. Then Dean remembered that he had given it up to take care of Amelia and Claire, and he felt his love and respect for Cas double in size. This, he realized, was someone to whom loyalty meant just as much as it did to Dean. This was someone who, once you had their trust, would never let you down. Never leave you. Never betray you.

This was the person Dean had been waiting for his whole life. The person he would be willing to give up his wandering ways for, give up his solitary life, his increasingly meaningless sexual conquests. Holy shit, this was the person he would be willing to fucking  _ marry _ .

“Dean?” Cas asked over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” Dean said, letting the feeling of peace settle over him. Cas frowned, but didn't say anything else about it. Dean moved around in front of him and said, “So what's the plan?”

Cas put his hand on the rope over his shoulder. “The factory is essentially one big room with offices overlooking the production area. Anyone coming in through the doors would be visible to anyone looking out of those offices. However, the building backs up to a rock wall—it was probably built there so that the island itself protected the building from the worst of the Bay's weather. If we climb up behind the building we should be able to enter through an upper window and come down that way, undetected.”

Dean frowned. “You really think whoever is doing this is going to be on the lookout for people sneaking in?”

Cas sighed. “Honestly, I have no idea. But I know enough about my family—about Michael in particular—to know what a bad idea it is to  _ ever _ underestimate them. Balthazar tried to steal a bottle of wine from Michael's cellar once and broke all of the fingers on his right hand. Michael had suspected someone was stealing from him and had unscrewed all of the light bulbs and placed  _ rat _ traps on the shelves. Michael is absolutely  _ ruthless _ about protecting what he thinks is his.”

“And he thinks whoever is doing this is...  _ his _ ?”

“Obviously. He wouldn't be threatening you—and me—if he didn't.”

Dean couldn't find fault in that logic. Cas set off then, motioning with his hand for Dean to follow, and Dean took the hand signal to mean that they were done with anything verbal for the near future. He followed Cas' lead, stopping when Cas motioned for him to stop, darting forward to take cover when Cas motioned him forward and down. He had never been so glad for his dad's paranoid training in his life, and wondered briefly how his dad would feel about him using that training to keep up with his gay lover. He liked to think that his dad would have been so impressed with what a BAMF Cas was that he would overlook the rest, but he wasn't so sure about that. Still, it was a nice thought.

He nearly ran into the back of Cas then, and mentally kicked himself for day dreaming.  _ Head in the game, Winchester _ , he told himself sternly, and crouched down behind Cas. Up ahead he could make out a dark figure leaning up against the side of a building, his face lit up like there was a searchlight shining on it. Dean was momentarily confused until he remembered he was wearing the night vision goggles and that what looked like a searchlight was really just the light from the man's phone as he looked at the screen. Dean felt a brief and almost overwhelming flash of joy at the sight of the man in front of him. If there was a guard here, then that meant there was something—or some _ one— _ to guard. And that someone could just possibly be Jo. 

Cas put his hand on Dean's knee then to get his attention, and motioned for him to stay quiet and keep an eye out while Cas crept forward and dealt with the guard. As much as Dean hated staying still while someone else took the risks he had seen enough of Cas in action to know that he was better suited for the job than Dean was. He couldn't help but feel a flash of pride as he watched Cas move up silently behind the guard and then quietly and efficiently take him out by snapping his neck.

He thought he saw Cas' shoulders slump slightly after he had caught the man and laid him gently on the ground, and when Cas motioned for Dean to come join him he couldn't stop himself from giving those same shoulders a comforting squeeze. He knew without being told that Cas regretted the necessity of taking the man's life and wanted to give what small comfort he could. He was glad he had made the gesture when he felt Cas' fingers reach up to tangle briefly with his own before Cas drew his hand to his lips and kissed it gratefully once before letting it go. Then he was gesturing for Dean to move up the rocky hillside in front of them and the moment was over.

When they reached the area where the roof nearly touched the rocky slope it was a fairly simple matter to jump lightly onto it and then make their way gingerly over to the line of windows that formed a peak on the top, probably put there, Dean supposed, to provide ventilation as much as light. Several of the windows were broken, and it didn't take any time at all finding one that was both broken and whose frame was still sturdy enough to hold their weight. Cas tied the rope to the frame and then held it in his hands, pausing. Dean could clearly see the indecision Cas was suffering: did he go first, leaving Dean alone and unprotected, or did he send Dean in first to face the unknown? Dean calculated that the most dangerous position was still point, and that Cas was still best suited to take it. He communicated to Cas that he should go first.

Cas nodded at him sharply to show that he understood, and lowered himself inside. Dean resisted the urge to watch him go down, instead keeping a sharp eye out around him. Only when he sensed the rope go slack did he chance a look down, and was relieved to see Cas standing about ten feet below him, on the roof of what were obviously the offices he had mentioned before. Cas gestured for him to come on down, and with another quick glance to make sure he was still alone, Dean swung himself over the edge of the window and began to descend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left. Thanks to everyone who has been following along and leaving kudos and comments. You guys have definitely helped me keep on schedule.


	15. "Waiting For The Miracle"

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“Waiting For the Miracle”

 

Cas watched Dean descend the rope and chastised himself for the way he couldn't help letting his eyes linger on the sharp outline of Dean's biceps as he lowered himself down. He found himself remembering staring at those same muscles as Dean balanced above him, holding himself up as he pumped smoothly in between Cas' legs. He wished he had taken that opportunity to lave as many kisses as possible across them, perhaps even marking them with teeth and tongue so that it was obvious to everyone that Dean belonged to him and him alone.

A noise below him pulled him back from that type of thinking, and he mentally kicked himself for allowing his mind to wander even for a second. Dean must have heard the noise, too, because he paused a few feet from the end of the rope and glanced down at Cas questioningly. Cas held up one hand to stop him and dropped to a crouch before slowly making his way over to the edge of the roof and looking down. He saw another guard below him, this one sitting in a chair that was facing the door. He was also looking at his phone, and Cas wondered if perhaps they used them instead of radios to check in with each other. If that was the case then he also wondered how long it would take for him to notice that the guard just outside the door wasn't responding anymore.

He looked at Dean and motioned for him to keep descending, but quietly. Dean did just that, dropping cat-like to stand next to Cas. Once there Cas pointed out the guard below them, and then waited for Dean to assess the situation, which was not only that there was no way to sneak up on the guard from their position, but also that there was probably no way to move around up here undetected—just standing where they were was already causing a light cloud of dust to drift slowly toward the ground.

If Cas had had a rifle he wouldn't have hesitated to try and take the man out, but all they had been able to fit into the backpacks had been handguns, and even without the added silencer the distance and angle made it a tricky shot at best. Still, Cas wasn't really surprised when Dean pulled out his .45 and then slowly pulled the silencer out of his bag. Cas had noted before the familiar way Dean handled the gun, and realized that it was a weapon that Dean knew intimately. If anyone could make the shot it was probably Dean. He nodded at Dean and hoped that his nod was enough to convey all of this—apparently it was, because Dean nodded back.

Dean slowly screwed the silencer onto the muzzle and then slid his night vision goggles up onto his forehead. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the new view, and then carefully raised his right arm, propped his left hand around his right elbow for support, closed one eye to sight along the barrel, and squeezed off three quick rounds. From below all they heard was a rasping death rattle and a small click when the phone slid out of the guard's hand and hit the floor. The guard himself remained in the chair, and it might have looked like he was sleeping if it wasn't for the way blood was dripping down his open hand and onto the floor.

Cas pushed his own goggles up in order to look over at Dean, who was staring back at him smugly, lips pursed in satisfaction. Cas surged forward then and pressed a quick, hard kiss to Dean's lips, and he felt Dean smile beneath his mouth before Dean responded with an equally fierce kiss of his own. When Cas had still been serving he had always felt guilty about the way he would find their missions so damn arousing, about the way he would jerk off later to the image of Jimmy sliding up behind some unsuspecting enemy soldier and taking him out cleanly and efficiently. He always suspected that it was a sign of something inherently wrong in him. Something sick. He still thought that might be the case, but knew at that moment that if he was wrong then Dean was also wrong in the exact same way. He stepped away from Dean and pulled his goggles back down.

It was time to check the rooms.

The first two rooms were absolutely bare—not even an empty chair or abandoned file cabinet. The third room looked like it had been turned into some kind of break room: there was a camp stove set up with a coffee pot on it, several mugs, gun oil and correspondingly greasy rags, and in the corner a camp cot with a few copies of  _ Busty Asian Beauties  _ and one copy of  _ Better Homes and Gardens _ thrown on top. There was also three five gallon water bottles like the kind you use for office coolers. They weren't attached to a cooler, however, but rather just sitting on the floor, and Cas found himself ridiculously happy about that. Somehow he knew that seeing them installed onto a cooler—seeing the whole place given that “just another day at the office” vibe—would have broken him. It would have broken him to see how normal his family could do crazy.

The fourth room held medical equipment, and a gurney with manacles attached. There were also scalpels, gauze, antiseptic, and a small curved funnel that Cas recognized as a force feeding tube. It made him sick to look at it, and to remember when he had last seen it used—on an enemy combatant who had tried to choose starvation over cooperation—but it also made him feel hopeful that Dean's theory about keeping the victims alive for two weeks was correct.

As he stepped past the gurney his boot pulled away from the floor with a tacky squelch, and he realized he had just stepped in something dark and sticky. He looked over at Dean to find him staring at the floor, his lips drawn in a thin, hard line. Dean motioned for them to leave the room and check the next, and Cas nodded to show he understood.

The next two rooms they checked, however, proved to be just as empty as the first. Cas could sense the frustration coming off of Dean, and he had to agree. It just didn't make sense: everything pointed to the fact that this was where the girls were being held. It was always possible, of course, that they were being held up at the manager's house, but if that was the case then why were there guards here? Surely there was no need for two (or possibly more) guards to watch over a pile of skin mags and an empty gurney.

Cas looked down below, scanning the edges of the factory floor, hoping to see a door that he had missed, but there was nothing. In frustration he glared at the guard, suddenly wishing they had managed to leave him alive long enough to question. His gaze was pulled to the pool of blood beneath the guard's outstretched hand. It was remarkably small, considering that the human body contained close to a gallon of blood. Was there a chance that he was still alive?

He motioned to Dean that he was going to go downstairs to check, and that Dean should stay up here. Dean frowned, then gave one quick nod, telling Cas that he understood but didn't like it. Cas smiled grimly to himself: he had a feeling that he and Dean could manage to communicate just fine without words anytime they had to.

Cas withdrew his handgun from his pack and screwed his own silencer on. He then made his way quietly down to the guard below, gun held tightly in both hands, head tilted just enough to see around it. As he got closer he was struck by the utter stillness of the man, the stillness that only death brings, and he relaxed slightly. He was still curious about the blood, however, and so he glanced down at the pool beneath the man's hand. Suddenly he understood. He motioned over his shoulder for Dean to come down, never taking his eyes away from the scene in front of him. He sensed rather than saw Dean at his shoulder, and took one hand off of the gun to point at the blood on the ground—the blood that was disappearing as quickly as it drained out, slipping into the seam of a trap door and disappearing somewhere below. Cas looked at Dean, and saw Dean nod his head once to show he understood.

He was going below.

 

* * *

 

Dean watched Cas move across the floor of the abandoned factory and couldn't help but think that if a cat ever decided to take up ballet, this is what it would look like. His movements were the very definition of grace. When Cas motioned for him to come down and join him, though, Dean switched from being appreciative to being elated: Cas had found something.

He stood beside Cas and stared at the spot where the blood was draining. Shit: this place was ten kinds of horror show. Cas motioned that they should move the guard together, and Dean nodded once to show that he understood. He put his gun back behind him, watched as Cas did the same, and then together they lifted the guard and his chair and moved him over a few feet. They left him in the same position: if someone came in they would think (for about two seconds at least) that he was sleeping. Dean knew that sometimes two seconds could make all of the difference.

The first thing that hit him when they opened the trap door was the smell. The air that oozed out of the hole at their feet was sour: it smelled like someone had taken the collected sweat from an entire roller coaster's worth of terrified passengers and bottled it. As if to give credence to this theory, the gasp that came from below was similar to the one you might hear at the top of the highest point of a roller coaster. The sob that followed, however, was not.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

Oh god. Dean recognized that voice. What was more, he recognized  _ that _ voice—that was the voice Jo used when she was scared out of her wits, but rather than give in to or even admit to that fear she became something else, something fiercer and unbreakable. Dean didn't waste any time after that: he swung his legs over the edge of the hole and felt the rungs of a ladder beneath his feet. Above him he could hear Cas hiss out a breath, and he looked up to see Cas drop to one knee, pull out his gun and take a protective stance above the opening. Good. It meant he was going to be on his own below, but it also meant that he had someone watching his back up above.

He was glad for the night vision goggles as soon as he was at the bottom of the ladder, because without them he would never have been able to make out the cages that lined the walls of the room he was in. There were probably twenty or so, and they were the type of cage you might buy at a pet store to keep your dog in while you were away at work. If you were that type of person, that is.

He scanned the cages, noting that they all held what seemed to be identical piles of blankets and empty water bottles. Some of them also held gallon Ziplocs filled with something Dean didn't want to think about. To his left one of the piles of blankets moved.

“Fucking bastard. I will  _ kill _ you.”

“Jo.” Dean spoke the word softly, but his voice seemed like it had died from disuse. Jesus, it hadn't been  _ that _ long since he'd last spoken out loud. There was an intake of breath. 

“Don't.” The voice he heard now was full of fear and despair.

Dean spoke again. “I think the line you're looking for is, 'Aren't you a little short to be a Storm Trooper?'”

There was a sob, and then Jo spoke again, her voice so small it was like she was a child all over again. “Are you real?”

Dean felt fury like he had never felt before course through him at the person responsible for bringing Jo—his brave, strong, tough as nails and funny as hell Jo—to this.

“I'm real, sweetheart. And I'm going to take you home.”

It only took him a moment to pick the lock on the door to Jo's cage, and then he was crawling inside to pull Jo into his arms. She struggled at first, and then she reached up and ran her fingers over his face as if she were trying to read it, and that's when he remembered that he was wearing the night vision goggles. To her, it was probably still black as pitch.

“It's me, Jo,” Dean said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “It's really me.”

Jo leaned forward then and pressed her nose against the side of Dean's neck and inhaled deeply. “Dean,” she breathed out. She took another long inhale, this one a little shakier, and then cleared her throat and said, “Get me the fuck out here.”

“Sure thing, your highness.” Jo made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh, and Dean pulled away from her. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Dean crawled back out of the cage, and Jo followed after him, clutching the ratty blanket in her fingers. He was glad to see she was still wearing her own clothes, even if they did look worse for wear. When they got to the ladder he motioned for her to go first. “There's a friend of mine waiting at the top,” he said. “Don't be scared.”

“Okay.” He ground his teeth together at that small, sad word. He would  _ end  _ the motherfucker that did this to Jo if it was the last thing he did. He followed Jo up the ladder, careful not to step on the blanket trailing behind her. 

When he got to the top she was standing next to the trap door, blinking. He wasn't sure if she saw Cas or not, so he said, “Jo, this is Cas. He's a friend.”

“Hello, Jo.”

She startled at that, and then said, “The singer from the square?”

Dean looked from Cas to Jo in confusion. “How did you know—” he began to ask, but Jo cut him off.

“Like I could ever forget a voice like that. Seriously, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “So you recognized me from my smell, and Cas from his voice? Damn, girl: we need to get you laid.”

The silence that followed that statement was deeper than all of the moments Dean and Cas had been communicating with hand signals. “Dean,” Cas began, his voice both a warning and a reprimand.

“Shit, Jo, I'm so sorry, I—”

“It's okay,” she said quickly. “He didn't.”

Dean felt himself relax.

“We should get out of here,” Cas said, and Jo made a noise that sounded like agreement. “This way,” he said to her, and put his hand on her shoulder to point her in the direction of the stairs.

“Don't you think we can use the door now, Cas?” Dean asked him. “I'm not sure if Jo can make it up the rope.”

“We can help her,” Cas replied. “I think it's better to stick with a known route.”

Dean thought to himself that Cas was being a little paranoid, but he didn't argue: Cas was the expert here, after all. When they got to the rope Cas quickly tied a few loops into the bottom of it , and explained how he was going to go up first and then pull Jo after him. The loops were for her hands and feet. Dean would wait below, ready to catch her if her grip on the rope slipped. Jo nodded in agreement, her lips pursed in concentration. Dean watched as Cas quickly climbed up the rope, trying not to be distracted by either his biceps or the way his ass looked as he worked his way up with his legs. He must have made an appreciative sound, though, because he heard Jo snort softly next to him.

“Jesus, Dean, if you'd just told me it was like  _ that _ I never would have gotten all butt hurt and left.”

He looked at her, prepared to let off a smart remark of his own when her words sunk in. If he had just been honest with Jo then they wouldn't be standing here right now. He wondered briefly if that applied to other parts of his life as well, and realized that it probably did.. He wondered how much of his fall out with Sam stemmed from how hard he had always worked to keep himself hidden. He thought of the way Cas had told him everything when he had gotten home from the club last night—about his family, about what he knew about the Angel Murders, and, most importantly, about how he felt about Dean. And Dean thought about how he had been honest in return, and how, as a consequence, everything was so easy with Cas now. He wondered if things could ever be that easy with Sam again, and decided that the first thing he would do when they got out of here would be to test that theory out. Well, that, and fuck Cas so hard that both of them would walk funny for a week.

He was drawn out of his reverie by Cas hissing at him from up above.

“Dean, lift Jo as high as you can.”

Dean turned his attention back to Jo, who seemed to have gone quiet all of a sudden, her eyes looking dazed and unfocused. “Jo, you still with us?” Dean asked her.

She shook her head, smiled tightly, and said, “Yeah.” She didn't sound like she was completely all there, but he'd have to take it.

“Okay, you're going to put your feet here, and your hands here.” He showed her on the rope, and she quickly stepped into the loops Cas had made. When it came time to grab the higher loops, however, she had trouble because she was still clutching the blanket.” “Jo, honey, I need you to let go of the blanket for this,” Dean said as he tried to gently pry the filthy blanket from her fingers.

“No,” she hissed. “It gets so cold at night.”

Dean felt like there was a fist around his heart, squeezing. He brushed Jo's hair back from her face and said, “I know, sweetheart. I know. But we're getting you out of here, okay? You won't need the blanket anymore.” She looked at him like he was crazy, and Dean wondered if her moments of lucidity before had been the fluke, or if this was. He wasn't sure which he hoped for more—if he was being honest then going crazy seemed like the sanest way for Jo to cope with her situation, but things would get real complicated, real quick if she couldn't be counted on to tell truth from fantasy right now. He sighed and pulled off his backpack, and then slipped out of his jacket.

“Here Jo, let me trade you. You take the jacket, and I'll take the blanket, okay?”

Her face lit up at that, and she happily relinquished the blanket to him while she slipped on the jacket and buried her nose in the collar. “Mmm, I always wanted to wear this jacket,” she said, and Dean hoped that meant she was back to being lucid. He dropped the blanket on the ground, put his hands on her hips, and as she slipped her hands into the top loops lifted her as high as he could so that Cas had less distance to pull her.

Cas quickly reeled in the excess rope and began to lift Jo. Dean could only see Cas' legs from his vantage point, but the steady way Jo rose above him told him Cas was having no trouble. Jo looked down at him and saw the blanket on the ground.

“If you don't want it you should just give it to Maria.”

Dean watched as Jo was pulled almost to the top of the window, and then saw Cas reach down and grab her wrist to pull her the rest of the way up. “Jo,” he said, keeping his voice low, “who's Maria?”

Jo didn't answer—she was already through the window. The rope dropped back down and dangled in front of him.

Dammit. He hadn't checked the other cages. What if there was another girl down there, possibly unconscious? What if he had left someone behind? He saw Cas' face in the window above him, his expression curious. Dean didn't need hand signals to know that Cas was asking him what the fuck he was doing.

“I have to go back. There might be someone else down there.”

Cas gave a quick, tight nod and then put his foot over the edge of the window frame.

“Whoa, whoa. You can't leave her alone, Cas.”

Cas withdrew his foot, and from the way he held his lips Dean could tell he was being glared at; Dean glared right back.

“Take her to the boat. I'll check out the rest of the cages and then meet you there in ten minutes.”

“No.”

The fact that he was speaking instead of just shaking his head said more about Cas' objection to Dean's plan than anything else.

“If I'm not there in twenty, take her back to Sam.”

“Dean,  _ no _ .”

“See you at the boat, Cas. I love you.”

Dean turned and darted down the stairs before Cas could say anything else, although he was pretty sure he had heard a sharply hissed  _ motherfucker  _ from behind him as he went. He was back in the basement room in two minutes, and the fact that Cas wasn't on his heels gave him hope that he had followed Dean's orders and taken Jo back to the boat. It took Dean three minutes to realize that all of the other cages were empty—they were light enough that he could just pick them up and throw them back down again. He didn't know who “Maria” was, but he had a sinking feeling that she might be the next body that was discovered.

He checked his watch when he got back out of the basement and saw that seven minutes had passed. He calculated how long it would take him to climb back up the rope versus the time it would save him just to go out the door and made a quick decision. Sure, Cas was right—it was technically safer to stick with the known route, but that increased the chance that he would miss Cas and Jo at the dock. And despite his bravado to Cas, he really,  _ really _ didn't want to get stuck on this island for any longer than necessary. He wanted to be back at the house with Jo and Cas and Sam. He wanted to be back in that room with Cas. When he'd gotten up to take a piss he'd noticed that the master bath had a freaking jacuzzi tub, and he'd be damned if he didn't get Cas in that thing before they had to leave that house. 

In retrospect, he probably should have been thinking more about what was on the other side of the door than how Cas would look, wet and desperate and riding his cock in the tub. He knew that intellectually, and he knew it again physically as soon as he pulled open the door and felt the knife slam into his shoulder.

At first the only thing that registered was the feel of the hilt against his shoulder, the way it slammed into his skin hard enough to bruise. Then he felt the sickening cold feel of  _ wrongness _ that always accompanied being shot or stabbed, the feeling of  _ nonono _ that came with something metal and hard and alien being lodged inside of him. Then the knife was pulled out as brutally as it went in and Dean staggered backward and fell against his attacker, who caught him in his arms almost tenderly.

“Hello, Dean,” the man said, sounding as if they had just run into each other on the street and not outside a freaky torture factory. Oh, and if one of them had not just sunken a knife into the other. The man pulled Dean's goggles off his face roughly, allowing Dean to get a good close look at him. Dean's first reaction was anger, not because he had just fucked everything up and gotten caught, and not because he had just been stabbed, but because this bastard had the audacity to be wearing Cas' eyes. Cas' beautiful, perfect eyes were in the face of a monster. And that was when Dean realized who he was looking at. This was no copycat. This was not someone pretending to be the Angel Murderer. This was Lucifer himself. This was the real deal.

“Luci, you got some 'splainin' to do,” he said, and then did his best to give one of his cockiest, most annoying grins, knowing that above all else he needed to give Cas time to get away with Jo.

Of course, that plan would have worked out a whole lot better if his body hadn't chosen that very moment to pass out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter. It will all wrap up on Sunday--thanks for coming along for the ride. You guys have been great.


	16. "Darkness"

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“Darkness”

 

Cas knew that the quickest thing to do would be to pick Jo up and carry her back to the boat—she became less lucid the more the adrenaline of being rescued wore off—but he told himself that if he did that it would leave him too vulnerable to attack.  _ Yeah _ , a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Claire sneered _ , that and the longer it takes to get back to the boat the more you can pretend that you aren't just waiting for Dean. _

Cas mentally shushed his inner Claire and concentrated on getting Jo to the boat and not thinking about Dean. He would be fine. In fact, with as slow as he and Jo were going Dean would probably catch up with them before they even got to the boat. He would hear Dean say his name any minute now, low and urgent behind him. And then they would get Jo on the boat, take her back to Sam, and then he and Dean would politely excuse themselves, go back to that incredible master suite and fuck each other's brains out in that massive bed again. Or maybe they would go to the ensuite bathroom. Cas remembered seeing a jacuzzi tub in there when he had brushed his teeth.

Then they were back at the dock. They were at the dock and there was no sign of Dean. Cas did  _ not _ look at his watch while they were still on the dock, did not look at it while he got Jo on board and stowed safely below, and did not look at it while he untied the stern. Only when he was at the wheel, ready to start the engine did he glance down at his watch and see how much time had passed.

Twenty-two minutes.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit  _ shit _ .

He counted to sixty in his head, and then counted to sixty again. He made it all the way to forty-five again before he made out someone moving slowly towards the dock. He wondered for a minute if Dean was injured, but then saw that the figure moving toward the dock was clearly carrying someone over their shoulder, and he realized that it must be Dean carrying the missing Maria. He felt a flash of relief, but it was quickly quashed when he noticed that the person being carried was too big to be a woman, and that the person doing the carrying didn't move at all like Dean. It was only when they were standing on the dock in front of him that the full horror of the situation hit him.

The man standing on the dock was  _ Lucifer _ . And the person he was carrying was Dean. Cas felt his eyes drawn to the spot that was growing beneath Dean's unconscious form, the spot that was clearly an ever-growing pool of blood.

“You must be Castiel,” Lucifer said, his voice casual. “I brought you something.” And then in one quick move he threw Dean off of the dock and into the water, where he immediately sank beneath the waves that lapped at the pier.

Cas really didn't have time to think about what he was going to do. He didn't have time, but that didn't stop all the different thoughts that spun through his head. He thought about what Dean would want him to do (get Jo out of there), he thought about what Jimmy would want him to do (don't leave Amelia and Claire unprotected) he thought about what Michael would want him to do (protect the family) and he even thought about what his long gone mother would want him to do (save yourself, Castiel). He thought about all of that, and then, for what just might have been the first time in his life, he thought about what  _ he _ wanted to do.

And he jumped in the water.

He jumped in feet first, pushing off his pack and his goggles before he left the boat, and took a giant breath before he dove down underneath the water and began to frantically search for Dean. Luckily it seemed as if the dunking in the cold water had woken Dean up, and the first thing Cas saw was Dean's wide open eyes, frantic and confused. There was a cloud of bloody water swirling in front of Dean that temporarily obscured his face, and then Cas had his arms around Dean and was kicking them back to the surface, where a particularly aggressive wave slammed them up against the pier.

Dean took the brunt of the blow and let out a pained groan that was a little too close to the noises he made in bed.

“Not now, Dean, I'm kind of busy,” Cas gasped out, and he felt Dean twitch in his arms.

“Did—did you just make a  _ joke _ , Cas? God, I fucking love you, man.”

Cas huffed out a laugh in reply, and said, “Can you swim? If we can get to the back of the boat there's a ladder.”

“I don't know,” Dean said. “Fucker got me in the shoulder. Right arm's pretty useless.”

“Okay,” Cas said. “Go limp. I got you.”

“There's a joke there, too. Somewhere. With  _ limp _ .” 

Dean's voice was starting to slur, and Cas knew that he was slipping back into unconsciousness again. He hooked his arm around Dean's neck and kept his head above water as he used his other arm and his legs to push them back towards the boat.

It was grueling work—the waves wanted nothing more than to slam them back into the pier, his boots felt like they weighed an extra ten pounds each, and he had to avoid going directly back to the side of the boat out of fear that a particularly large wave would lift it up and set it back down on them. To make matters worse, he could feel Dean going still in his arms.

“Dean,” he grunted into Dean's ear, “I need your help. I can't do this alone.”

Dean opened his eyes. “Not going to leave you alone Cas. Not ever,” he mumbled.

Cas felt as if the words went straight to his soul, and he felt an extra burst of energy come from somewhere deep inside of him. “Then kick, Dean. Kick your legs. I need you to help.”

“'Kay, Cas.” Dean kicked his legs, and they began to make a little progress. Cas tried to ignore the way Dean let out a small whimper each time he moved his legs. “Hurts,” Dean said, and Cas let the hand that was wrapped around Dean's neck stroke softly for a second.

“I know, Baby, I know,” he said. “Just kick for me, okay?”

He felt rather than saw Dean grit his teeth together and kick, and Cas felt such an overwhelming surge of pride and respect for this man that it gave him another boost of energy—enough to make it to within touching distance of the ladder at the back of the boat. When he felt the smooth metal of the ladder beneath his fingers he sobbed in relief. They were going to make it.

That's when he heard the slow clapping coming from above him.

He looked up to see Lucifer standing in the boat and felt all hope drain away. Of course Lucifer had just jumped into the boat. Of course he had been watching them struggle the whole time, waiting for them to either sink beneath the waves or make it back to the boat, where he would easily finish them off. As Cas looked up Lucifer smirked down at him.

“Very impressive. Too bad your loyalty isn't as strong as your will.”

“My loyalty is  _ fine _ ,” Cas gritted out.

Lucifer sneered. “What, because you rescued  _ this man _ ? Because you humiliate yourself in public so you can support the family of some  _ other _ man? Because you left your rightful place in the priesthood over the death of yet  _ another _ man?”

“Wow, when he puts it that way you kind of sound like a slut, Cas.”

“Shut up, Dean.” Cas' words weren't a rebuke: they were a warning. Dean had his head against Cas' shoulder, his eyes shut in pain or exhaustion or both, and so he didn't see that Lucifer had pulled out a long, wicked knife as he spoke. And he didn't see Lucifer lean down with that knife, close enough to finish what he had started before. Which was probably why he didn't shut up like Cas told him to—either that, or it was just because he was Dean Winchester.

“You're telling  _ me _ to shut up? I'm not the one making the evil villain monologue here.”

“ _ Enough _ !” Lucifer said. Clearly goaded beyond his limit, he put one hand on the boat and leaned down to slash at Dean with his knife. Before Cas could react Dean was surging forward to meet him, his one good arm grabbing Lucifer's wrist and pulling him down. Lucifer's eyes opened in shock as he realized the precariousness of his situation, and for a brief moment Cas saw fear in them before he toppled the rest of the way forward to land in the water just behind them.

“Go!” Dean was shouting, all of his nonchalance gone as he pushed Cas toward the ladder. “Get the gun!”

Cas looked at Dean and saw what his effort with Lucifer had cost him: he saw the blood spilling out between them and realized that Dean must have torn something further when he lunged forward, and that the blood coming out now seemed to be coming out with a pulse. Dean was bleeding out right in front of him.

“No,” he said. “Get in the boat.” He pushed Dean toward the ladder instead.

“Dammit, it'd be nice if  _ one  _ of us survived this.”

Cas didn't have time to answer that, because Lucifer chose that moment to surge out of the water like the worst last scene in a shark movie ever. Cas' final thought was that that was actually a fairly accurate description of Lucifer, with his flat, emotionless eyes and his feral grin. Lucifer held his knife aloft for a moment between them and Cas let go of Dean to try and grab Lucifer's wrist as it came slashing down. Before he could reach him, though, there were three sharp retorts and the knife was falling out of Lucifer's hands and into the water. Lucifer grinned, and if the effect hadn't been terrifying enough on its own the blood welling out of his mouth certainly was. Cas watched, mesmerized, as Lucifer slowly sank beneath the water, his eyes open and malicious to the end. His concentration was only broken when he heard the shout behind him.

“Dean!”

He turned around in time to see Dean also sinking beneath the waves, his face so pale and bloodless that the first thing Cas did after pulling him against his chest was to slip his fingers beneath Dean's jaw to check for a pulse.

There was none.

He looked up at the boat, at a now apparently lucid Jo standing above him with his gun in her hands. “Help me,” he growled, pushing Dean ( _ Dean _ he told himself firmly, not Dean's  _ body _ , but  _ Dean _ ) back over to the ladder.

“I won't be able to pull him in,” she said, her face almost as white as Dean's as she stared at him in horror.

“Just hold him,” Cas replied. Jo did as she was told, keeping one hand on the edge of the boat and one hand gripped tight in Dean's shirt as Cas pulled himself up the ladder and then turned back to grip Dean by the collar. “On three,” he said, and thank god Jo understood. Between the two of them they managed to heave Dean into the boat, where he lay pale and unmoving on the deck, blood now only slowly oozing out of his shoulder.

Cas felt for his pulse again, this time jamming his fingers so far under Dean's jaw that it was sure to leave a bruise. And that's when he felt it, small and thready.

“Is he...?” Jo trailed off above him.

“Yes,” Cas said. “Barely.” He pulled his wet shirt over his head then, wrung it out the best he could and pressed it to Dean's shoulder. “Can you drive a boat” he asked.

“No,” Jo said. I'm sorry—”

Cas cut her off. “Then apply pressure to the wound.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down. “Press  _ hard _ .”

Cas quickly crawled to the front of the boat and untied the bow line, tossing it back inside the boat before he slithered back to the wheel and started the engine. Ot at least tried to. The engine gave one roar and then fell silent. Cas tried again. And again. He was about to try a fourth time when he heard Dean's voice from behind him.

“What the  _ fuck  _ am I doing falling in love with a guy who treats an engine like that? Jesus, Cas, count to to ten: you're going to flood it.” The words, for all their bravado, came out weak. Cas spun around and dropped to his knees beside Dean. He didn't even look at Jo as she also knelt beside Dean, holding Cas' shirt against his shoulder. He leaned over and pressed his lips to Dean's, sweeping his tongue inside Dean's mouth when he opened it on a gasp. He sucked Dean's tongue into his mouth and then pulled away to bite down softly on Dean's bottom lip, pulling a low moan out of Dean before he drew back to look into Dean's eyes.

“Ten,” he said.

Dean blinked, and then huffed out a laugh. “Dick,” he said.

Cas looked up to find Jo watching them both with amusement. He gave her a tight smile and then stood up and went back to the wheel, where he glared at the key before reaching out his hand. “I will  _ smite _ you,” he whispered, and then turned the key. The engine spluttered to life, and he smiled.

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, the ride back to the pier went quickly. Cas called Sam and told him what had happened. It was Sam who came up with the plan to say that Dean had gotten attacked back in Oakland and fallen in the Bay, and that Cas had jumped in to rescue him, thereby putting off most of the awkward questions at the hospital.

It was also Sam who had the idea to blackmail Michael.

While Dean was still in the hospital Sam had recorded statements from Cas, Dean, and Jo. Cas told the camera everything he knew about his family, Dean corroborated the parts that involved him, and Jo listed in detail all she and the other girls had suffered at Lucifer's hands. Most damning of all, she told about the one time Michael had shown up to berate Lucifer, yelling at him that he was getting “sloppy” and that if he wasn't careful he was going to get caught again.

Then he sent the videos to Michael, along with the message that multiple copies of the videos had been distributed to friends around the country with the instructions that if anything ever happened to any of them, the videos were to be forwarded to the authorities.

He also sent their list of demands. They demanded that he step down as District Attorney. That he leave Amelia and Claire alone. And that he never, ever, try to contact Cas. In return they would keep quiet about everything. It wasn't the perfect solution. It galled both Dean and Cas to let Michael get away with the stuff he did, but they also both saw the wisdom of quitting while they were ahead. Dean especially so after he finally had the chance to meet Michael.

It was two weeks after they had rescued Jo. They had told Frank the time of night that Lucifer had disappeared, and he had been able to pinpoint to the hour when and where his body would reappear again. They had been walking the shoreline Frank had pointed them to for about forty-five minutes before Dean finally spotted something dark rolling on the waves. He stopped Cas with one hand (his other still being caught up in the stupid sling Cas insisted he wear every time he so much as stood up) and pointed it out; Cas took the boat hook he had borrowed from Frank down from his shoulder and sank it into the thing in the shallow water, pulling it up on shore with minimal effort. When they had turned it over they saw that it was, indeed, Lucifer. His eyes, unlike the eyes of the girls he had murdered, were still there—wide open and staring. Looking at them now, Dean wondered how he could have ever mistaken them for Cas'.

“I wonder why the fish didn't eat his eyes?” Cas remarked, seemingly unmoved by the sight of his own flesh and blood lying before him. “Do you think Lucifer put something on the others' eyes to draw the fish?”

Dean looked at him more closely, and saw that Cas was anything but unmoved—instead, his seeming detachment was just a mask held in place to cover a swarm of emotions just beneath the skin. It was hardly obvious, but then, after spending the last two weeks in Cas' constant company, Dean had started to learn all of his tells.

“Maybe,” Dean said now, gently turning Cas away from the body in front of them. “Or maybe the other bottom feeders were just showing him professional courtesy.” Cas quirked a brief smile at that, and Dean took that as his permission to dip down and press his lips to the other man's mouth.

“Do you want me to call Michael?” he asked, his lips still moving next to Cas'.

“Mmm,” Cas sighed against his mouth. “No, it's okay. I'll do it.”

He pulled away from Dean then, walking away to call Michael and tell him they had found the body. That had been another part of the deal—that they would allow Michael to spirit the body away. He had wanted them to simply tell him where it would be, but Cas had been afraid to reveal anything to Michael that might tip him to Frank's involvement, and so they had ended up out here themselves instead, walking the shore in the early dawn looking for the corpse of a murderer.

Cas finished his phone call and came back to Dean, laying his head on Dean's shoulder and allowing Dean to wrap his good arm around his waist.

“Michael will be here in twenty minutes.”

Dean squeezed him a little tighter, and murmured, “Love you,” in his ear.

Cas turned his head so that his lips were against Dean's neck and whispered, “I love you, too, Dean,” before he proceeded to kiss his way up Dean's neck to his jaw, and then down his jaw to his chin before Dean finally groaned and captured his mouth with his own. They bit and sucked at each others' mouths for a few minutes until finally Dean pulled back with a gasp.

“Babe, I  _ really _ don't want to meet your dick uncle with a raging hard on.”

Cas chuckled darkly, and said, “I could take care of it before he gets here, if you like,” and then he ran his tongue out and across his bottom lip.

Dean barked out a laugh. “A blow job on the beach next to a two week old water-logged corpse? Cas, that's all  _ kinds _ of fucked up. I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

Cas chuckled again, and said, “You're the only person I've ever met that loves the broken parts of me more.”

Dean pressed Cas' head to his shoulder and put his lips against his ear. “There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.”

“Oh my god. Are you quoting Leonard Cohen to me?”

“I dunno; am I?”

“Yes, you are. I had no idea you listened so closely to what I sang. Or that, apparently, I sang so much Cohen.”

Dean put his fingers underneath Cas' chin and tilted his mouth up so that he could kiss him again. “I like to hear you sing,” he said. Cas smiled at that, and so Dean slowly sucked Cas' bottom lip between his before whispering huskily, “Almost as much as I like to hear you scream.”

Cas shoved him away then, but he was still smiling. Dean pretended to clutch his injured shoulder in pain. “Hey, easy there. I'm  _ injured _ , remember?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Which is why, if you remember correctly, I wouldn't take you up on your offer to 'make me scream' this morning.”

“Or last night. Or the night before that. Or the night before—”

“Dean.” Dean stopped his rant at Cas' serious tone, but he didn't take the mutinous expression off of his face. “You've torn out your stitches  _ three times _ . The last time they stitched you up again they said you'd need surgery and physical therapy if they came out again.”

“They were exaggerating.”

“They were  _ not _ . I don't want to have to start putting 'fucked his partner into physical therapy' on my resume.”

“I dunno. That sounds kind of hot.”

“Dean.”

“And it also makes me wonder what else is on this 'resume' of yours.”

“Dean.”

“I mean, does it mention the way you can curl your tongue around my—”

“Dean.”

Dean stopped talking and stared over Cas' shoulder, his eyes narrowing, all hint of playfulness gone. Cas turned and saw Michael and two of his goons making their way down the beach. One of the goons was carrying what Dean recognized as a body bag in his hands.

“Castiel.”

Oily. Dean wasn't quite sure how something could  _ sound  _ oily, but that was the only word he could think of to describe Michael's voice. Even if he hadn't already hated everything about the guy on principal he would hate the way Cas' name sounded in his mouth. Like it was something distasteful. Hearing it said like that made Dean want to whisper it over and over again in Cas' ear, like a benediction.  _ Castiel, Castiel, Cas-ti-ellllll _ . He wanted to cleanse it on his tongue.

“I had hoped you would come alone.” Michael glanced at Dean as he spoke, and then glanced away again, clearly dismissing Dean from his thoughts.

Dean thought of about twenty different things he could say to that, twenty different things that would tell Michael just what he thought of his little bullshit display of superiority. Thought of twenty different things, and then decided to stick with the classic.

“Fuck you, too, asshole.”

The men with Michael moved toward Dean, who stood his ground and kept his glare focused on Michael. Cas took a step forward, his hands balling into fists. Michael sighed, and held up a hand. “Enough. Patrick, Sean, please retrieve my brother.”

The men didn't hesitate, turning away from Dean and moving toward Lucifer's body in one fluid motion. It struck Dean then that they would have obeyed Michael no matter what he had asked of them, whether it was to retrieve a corpse or beat a man they had never seen before to death. Out of all the scary shit he had seen in the last few weeks, not mention his last few years of work, that was by far the scariest.

Cas and Michael didn't speak again as Lucifer's body was bagged up, and when Michael turned to walk back the way he had come his look slid over Cas the same way it had slid over Dean earlier, like he was no more interesting than the driftwood on the beach. Strangely enough that filled Dean with more relief than anything else. He wanted Cas to be beneath Michael's contempt, because that way it would never be worth Michael's time to try and hurt him.

Still, he knew how it hurt to have your family dismiss you so completely. He felt a surge of gratitude that he was no longer estranged from Sam like that, and a flush of happiness as he remembered that they were supposed to have dinner with Sam that evening.

With Sam, Amelia, Claire, and Jo, actually.

Upon learning that Jo was the real owner of Claire's new fish, Amelia had decided that Jo needed to stay with them while she recuperated. After a few days they soon discovered that Jo, at twenty-six, was the perfect buffer between an angry teenager and her thirty-five year old mom, and they decided to make the arrangement permanent. Jo's share of the rent money meant that Amelia and Claire could get by without quite so much help from Cas. And the fact that Sam had an excuse to stop by the apartment (“to discuss cases with Jo”) meant that the interest he had first taken in Amelia when Dean and Cas were busy rescuing Jo could be given the chance to slowly develop, to the point that they had finally gone on their first date the week before. Tonight was technically going to be their third, a subject that Dean had gleefully teased Sam about all morning long as Sam had helped him fill out the paperwork necessary to be hired as Sam's second investigator—Michael's abrupt departure as DA had left such a vacuum that Sam was pulled up into a more senior position in the office, one that gave him the authority to hire another investigator. Jo had no problem working with Dean again—apparently his relationship with Cas put him into some other kind of category altogether in her mind, one where romantic feelings died a quick, painless death.

Although she did keep trying to talk to him about blow job techniques.

Not that he got a chance to try any of them out. After his last visit to the emergency room to have his stitches redone Cas had refused to do anything more strenuous than kiss. Hey, it wasn't Dean's fault that they happened to get the same ER doc twice in a row. One who had taken it upon herself to lecture Cas for twenty minutes in the hallway while Dean getting dressed. One who had used words like “irresponsible” and “thoughtless.” Which is how Dean had ended up where he was right now, with a lapful of sexy singer and the worst case of blue balls since he was fifteen.

“Please, Cas,” he whined. “I'm dying here. Let me help.”

Cas sank back down on the three fingers he had worked inside himself, moaning softly. His chest was flushed a bright red, and there was a fine sheen of perspiration across his forehead. He stopped what he was doing at Dean's words and stared at Dean intensely, his eyes blown black with desire.

“Dean,” he said, and fuck, his voice was so low Dean felt it in his bones. “Do I need to do this in another room?”

“No, Baby,” Dean said, trying to placate his lover. “It's just—I do have  _ one  _ good arm, you know.”

“Yes. And every time we have tried to stick to you using your  _ one good arm _ it has ended with you losing control and using both. So that's why there's a new rule until these stitches come out:  _ no touching. _ ” Cas had reached behind himself again while they were talking and slipped a fourth finger inside, so that his last few words ended on a gasp. Dean bit his lip and groaned in frustration.

“I feel like I'm getting a lap dance.”

Cas reached for the lube next to them on the bed and squirted a generous handful into his palm. “Really? Have you ever gotten  _ this _ during a lap dance?” In one swift move he coated Dean's dick with lube, lined him up with his hole and then sank back down with Dean all the way inside him.

“Jesus! Fuck!” Dean screamed, and he lifted his hands to Cas' hips. Cas grabbed his wrists in his hands and pushed them back to the bed.

“No. Touching,” he panted out.

“Cas,” Dean whined.

Cas closed his eyes and breathed out, allowing his body to adjust to Dean inside of him, and then he opened them again, leaned forward, and brushed his lips across Dean's as he slid his fingers up into the hair on the back of Dean's head. Using his grip on Dean for leverage, he rose up and then sank back down again, whimpering softly against Dean's mouth with pleasure. Dean made a sound like he was breaking, and then he was biting and sucking at Cas' lips, his tongue sweeping into Cas' mouth to slide over his teeth, his gums, the roof of his mouth. Cas opened his mouth to Dean fully, but he was too involved with the feel of Dean's cock in his ass to concentrate on anything else.

He bobbed up and down on Dean's lap, brows furrowed, gasping out little “ _ oh, oh, oh _ ” sounds against Dean's mouth as Dean continued to touch him in the only way he was allowed. Dean made a desperate noise in the back of his throat and leaned his forehead against Cas' shoulder.

“Shit, Babe, I don't think I can last much longer.  _ Please _ . Need to touch you so bad.” A look of uncertainty passed over Cas' face then, and Dean knew his resolve was weakening. “I'll be careful.  _ Please _ .” He purposely dropped his voice—already rough and low from groaning—down another octave. One thing he had learned was that his voice wrecked Cas just as much as Cas' voice wrecked him. Cas let out a whimper of defeat.

“Yes. God, yes. Touch me, Dean. Touch me.”

Dean didn't need to be told twice. He reached out with his good hand and wrapped his fingers around Cas' cock, which was hard and dripping between them. He pulled his fingers through the precome on the head and wiped it on his bottom lip, letting Cas see the clear fluid glistening there before he swiped out his tongue to lick it up. “Taste so fucking good, Cas,” he said before capturing Cas' mouth in is own again as he slid his hand up and down Cas' length in the same rhythm Cas was using to ride him. “Feel so fucking good, too.”

Cas choked out a sob and threw back his head. “Dean!” he shouted. “Oh, God, Dean!”

Then he was coming between them, clenching down on Dean so hard that Dean felt his own orgasm pulled out of him as well, and Dean came so hard and so fast that he couldn't stop himself from lifting his injured arm to pull Cas to him fiercely. Fortunately by that time Cas was starting to come down enough from his own orgasm that he was able to catch Dean's wrist and pin it to his side before Dean could do any real damage.

“Dean,” he admonished, as soon as Dean's breathing had backed down from “hyperventilating” to merely “panting.”

“Sorry, Babe,” Dean said, lying back down and not sounding sorry at all. “But have you  _ seen _ you? Jesus fucking Christ, it should be fucking  _ illegal _ .”

Cas slid off of Dean and snuggled up against his good arm. “Such charming pillow talk.”

Dean pulled him closer. “Shaddup. You love me.”

“I do.” Cas smiled against Dean's side.

“Same here.”

They lay quietly for another minute, Cas running his fingers across Dean's chest and Dean playing with Cas' hair tucked under his chin. Finally Cas broke the silence.

“Dean?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Dean sounded like he was about to fall asleep.

“Would you move in with me?” Dean froze, and Cas pushed himself up so that he could look at Dean's face. Dean saw the confused expression on his face and blushed. Cas frowned. “You don't have to. I just thought, well, since you're—I mean, and we're—it would be nice—”

Dean stopped him with a hand on his lips. “Babe. It's okay. It's just, ah, well...” His eyes drifted away from Cas' and then came back and met them sheepishly. “I kind of already thought I did. I mean, we're official, right? I put this address down on the paperwork at the DMV.”

Cas smirked. “That's what makes us 'official' in your eyes? Your car registration?”

Dean frowned. “Baby needs a home. What if something happened to her? How else would they find me?”

Cas shook his head. “My God, I love you so much, Dean Winchester. Okay, let me try this again. Would you—and your car—like to move in with me?”

Dean smiled back. “We'd be honored.”

“Good. Now come take a shower with me. Claire is coming over this afternoon for her lesson.”

“I'll go to the store. Let's make her stay for dinner.”

Cas stood up and held out his hand to help Dean up as well. Dean, of course, ignored the proffered hand and got up on his own, wincing slightly. Cas frowned, but didn't say anything about it. He did, however, toss a comment over his shoulder as they went into the bathroom.

“Fine. But there's no way you two are roping me into watching “America's Next Top Model,” with you again. I was afraid the police were going to show up last time, what with all of the screaming and cursing.”

“That girl does have a foul mouth on her.”

Cas turned and glared. “I was referring to  _ you _ , Dean. Although Claire's vocabulary has increased substantially since she met you.”

Dean preened proudly. “Damn straight it has. Somebody had to teach her. What else is family for?”

Cas chose that moment to grace Dean with one of his amazing gummy smiles, and Dean knew instantly he had said the right thing. He smiled back at him, and realized that he really did consider Claire family now, just as much as Cas did. He thought of all of the people in his new family: Claire, Amelia, and of course, Cas, and then thought of the members of his old family—Sam and Jo—that he was finally reunited with, and smiled even wider.

Damn. He really was the luckiest guy on Earth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for following along! This was my 2013 Nano, and I've had so much fun posting it here that I think I'm going to post an old Nano here as well. It's not Destiel, it's an original work, and not very smutty, since I wrote it as a YA, but I hope some of you guys come back to check it out. It's a zombie romance called "You Only Call Me When You're Dead."  
>  Update: I've started posting my zombie novel. I'm doing four chapters a week, so it should all be up by July.


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